i am in a card game.
My cards slip under something on the table and emerge old
i point this out to the others, who don't believe it. Each
of them throws a card against a wall, to which they stick,
while mine bounces off and circles the room,
top of a chest of drawers, from where it begins to speak.
The ocean roared;
a child cried with overlapping circuits of
neurons. One neuron could be a member of a number of different
circuits; it would be the specific combination in each case that
distinguished one circuit from another. Each circuit would contribute
to the phenomenon of a memory, so that no single brain cell or
exclusively committed group of cells is wholly responsible; instead,
the memory would be distributed from
his seat at the back of his father's bicycle; an oil tanker crawled
across the ocean's upper green lip; a woman wearing a long black
dress dragged its hem over damp sand studded with particles of half-buried
living brain has a surreal fragility;
its porcelain surface is laced with delicate arteries that
begin as thick cords but quickly branch into finer and finer
threads. Looking at the surface of the brain is like looking
at a satellite photo of a large city—one immediately
senses a function far more complex than what is visible.
I thought of
Pablo and Françoise on the beach at
Antibes, the old satyr as he came to be known. The soul of Amun was supposed
to be enshrined in a serpent-shaped sceptre known as Kem-at-ef
(He-who-has-finished-his-moment) which was perhaps our psychological
roads and boundaries;
he marks the borderlines of our psychological frontiers and marks
the territory where the foreign, the alien, begins holding an umbrella
over his young mistress' head. Saltwater
for blood, he could never drink enough of life.