As long as it's the same page we're both not on,
we can communicate. If you're not really
in that body, and I'm not really in this one,
not only can we make them talk
at each other, but we can understand
what they say. Brain science will never
discover us (phew!). We're hidden
in plain know -- nothing to see here, folks,
just a brain -- marvel at its convolutions, its
trillions and brillions and quadrille lions of
thingies that connect to thingies that receive
and translate signals into signals -- but never ask,
"Who is listening at the receiving end?"
For there is no "who", no you nor I, no one is
here -- ah, my fellow non-existent neuro-scientists,
you are SUCH mystics!
But that's just one more way a wrinkled blob of fat
comports itself (see here: this is the section of the brain
that, if stimulated, makes one imagine he is a
psychiatrist), or perhaps symptomatic of chemicals
losing their balance after being spun through
too many DNA spirals. Most neuro-scientists suffer
from Nobody's-Here-But-Us-Brains Disorder
(or NHBUB) -- these NHBUBs of negativity --
for which we have a new miracle medication:
Imbibulac! active ingredient, pure alcohol.
Neuro-scientists need a dose of spirit,
the lift that keeps on leaving (or is it
living?), the fighting nothing that always wants
to make something of it, make lots of somethings,
see all the somethings bubbling up out of it,
the ever effervescent spirit!
Note: My coined acronym, NHBUB, reminded me of ex-Vice President
Spiro Agnew's description of journalists then hostile to him as
"Nabobs of Negativity" pretty damned good for a
politician (and, supposedly, a corrupt one). What ever became of
him, poor dwindling Spiro? (Note: "Dwindling" because
he dwindled from view and because "dwindling spiral" describes
the way entrapment leads to greater entrapment (addiction, for example,
or the way the hatreds left over from a war lead to a worse war)
in a downward-spiraling world.