flahute » brain

An interim post

flahute — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 23:07:44 +0000

An interim post just so that there is something between my last Quote of the Day, and my next Poetry Friday … there’s been a lot going on in my head lately that I’m still trying to wrap my brain around so I can put it in words. Should be able to write more this weekend.

Poetry Friday (and it’s a doozy)

flahute — Fri, 23 May 2008 01:44:05 +0000

HEY ALLEN GINSBERG WHERE HAVE YOU GONE AND WHAT WOULD YOU THINK OF MY DRUGS?

A mouse went to see his mother. When his car broke down he bought a bike. When the bike wore out he bought skates. When the skates wore down he ran. He ran until his sneakers wore through. Then he walked. He walked and walked, almost walked his feet through so he bought new ones. His mother was happy to see him and said, “what nice new feet you have on.”

—paraphrase of a story in Mouse Tails by Arnold Lobel

hey, listen, a bad thing happened to
my friend’s marriage, can’t tell you
only can tell my own story which
so far isn’t so bad:

“Dad” and I stay married. so far.
so good. so so.

But it felt undoable. This lucky life
every day, every day. every. day.

(all the poetry books the goddamn same
until one guys gets up and stuns the audience)

Then, Joe Wenderoth, not by a long shot
sober says, I promised my wife I wouldn’t fuck
anyone, to no one in particular and reads a poem
about how Jesus has no penis.

Meanwhile, the psychiatrist, attractive in a fatherly
way, says libido question mark.

And your libido?
like a father, but not like mine, or my sons’—

“fix it.”

My friend’s almost written
a good novel by which I mean finished
which means I’d like to light myself
on fire, on fire
with envy, this isn’t “desire”
not what the Dr. meant
by libido?
                         I hope—

not, it’s just chemical:
             jealousy. boredom. lethargy.

Books with prominent seraphs: their feet feet feet I am
marching to the same be—

other

than the neuronic slave I thought anxiety made me
do it, made me get up and carry forth, sally
the children to school the poems dragged
by little hands on their little seraphs
to the page my marriage sustained, remaining
energy: project #1, project #2, broken
fixtures, summer plans, demand met, request
granted, bunny noodles with and without cheesy
at the same time, and the night time I insomnia
these hours penning invisible letters—

             till it stopped.

doc said: it’s a syndrome.       you’ve got it,
                                     classic.

it’s chemical,
mental

circuitry we’ve got a fix for this
classic, I’m saying I can

make it better.

Everything was the same, then,
but better.

At night I slept.
In the morning got up.

Kids to school, husband still a fool—
hardy spirit makes
me pick a monday morning fight, snipe! I’ll pay for that
later I’m still a pain in the
elbow from writing prose those shift+hold+letter,
I’m still me less sleepy, crazy, I suppose
less crazy-jealous just
ha-ha now at Jesus’ no penis his
amazed at the other poet’s kickass
friend’s novel I dream instead about
the government makes me put stickers
on my driver’s license of family members
who are Jews, and mine all are. Can they get us
all? I escape with a beautiful light-haired man,
blue-eyed day trader, gentile.

gentle, gentle, mind encased in its
blood-brain barrier from the harsh skull
sleep, sleep and sleepy wake and want
to sleep and sleep a steep dosage—

             “—chemical?”

in my dreams now every man’s mine, no-
problem, perhaps my mind’s a little plastic,
malleable, not so fatal now

the dose is engineered like that new genetic watercress
to turn from green to red when planted over buried
mines, nitrogen dioxide makes for early autumn
red marks the spot where I must
watch my step, up one half-step-dose specific—

             The psychiatrist’s lived in NY so long
             he’s of ambiguous religious—
             everyone’s Jewish sometimes—
             writes: “up the dosage.”

now,
when I’m late I just shrug
it’s my new improved style
missed the train? I tug
the two boys single file

the platform a safe aisle
between disasters, blithely
I step, step, step-lively
carefully, wisely.

I sing silly ditties
play I spy something pretty
grey-brown-metal-filthy
for a little city fun.

Just one way to enjoy life’s
trials, mile after mile, lucky
to have such dependable feet.

you see,
the rodents don’t frighten I’m
calm as can be expected to recover left to my
one devivces I was twice as fast getting everywhere but
where did that get me but there, that inevitable location
more waiting, the rats there scurry, scurry, a furry

till the next train comes

“up the dosage.”

Brown a first-cut brisket in hot Dutch oven
after dusting with paprika. Remove. Sauté
thickly sliced onions and add wine. (Sweet
is better, lasts forever, never need a new bottle).
Put the meat on onions, cover with tomato-sauce-
onion-soup-mix mixture, cover. Back in a low
oven many hours.

The house smells like meat.
My hair smells like meat.

I’m a light unto the nation.

I’m trying
to get out of Egypt.
This year,
I’ll be better.

Joseph makes sense of the big man’s dreams, is saved,
saves his brothers those jealous boys who sold him
sold them all as slaves. Seven years of plenty. Seven
years of famine. He insomnias the nights counting up
grains, storing, planning, for what? They say throw
the small boys in the river (and mothers do so). Smite
the sons (and fathers do it.) God says take off your shoes,
this holy ground this pitiful, incombustible bush.

Is God chemical?
Enzymatic of our great need to chaos?

We’re unforgivable.
People of the salted
cheeks. Slap, turn, slap.

To be chosen
is to be
unforgiving/ unforgiv-
en, always chosen:
be better.

The Zuckers are a long line of obsessives.

This served them well in war time saw it
coming in time that unseeable thing they
hoarded they ferried, schemed, paced, got the hell
out figured out at night, insomnia, how to visa—

now, if it happens again, I won’t be
ready

I’m “better.”

The husband, a country club Jew from Denver, American
intelligentsia will have to carry me out and he’s no big
man and I’m not a small girl how fast

can the doctor switch the refugee gene back on?

How fast can I get worse? Smart again and worse?

Better to be alive than better.

             “…listen:” says the doctor, “sleeping isn’t death.
             All children unlearn this fear you got confused
             thought thinking was the same as spinning—”
             Writes: “up the dosage.”
             don’t think. this refugee thing part
             of a syndrome fear of medication of being better…

Truth is, the anti-obsessional medicine works
wonders and drags me through life’s course…

About this time of year but years ago the priests spread
rumors of blood libel. Jews huddled in basements accused
of using Christian babes’ blood to make unleavened bread.

signs and wonders.
Christ rises.

Blood and body and babes.
Basements and briskets
and bread of afflictions.

I am calm now with my pounds of meat
made and frozen, my party schedule, my pills
of liberation, my gentile dream-boy, American
passport, my grey haired-psychiatrist, my blue-
eyed son, my brown-eyed son, my poems on their
pretty little fleet-feet, my big shot friends, olive-skinned
husband, my right elbow on fire: fire inside deep in the nerve
from too much carrying and word-mongering, smithery, bearing
and tensing choosing to be better to live this real life this better orbit this Jack

Kerouac never loved you like you wanted.
Blake.
Buddha.
Only Jesus and that’s his shtick,
he loves

everyone: smile! that’s it,
for the camera, blood pressure
normal, better, you’re a poster child
for signs and wonders what a little chemistry
does for the brain, blood, thought, hey,

did you know that Pharaoh actually wanted
to let them go? those multitude Jews
but God hardened Pharaoh’s heart against them [Jews]
to prove his prowess show his signs, wonders, outstretched
hand, until the dosage was a perfect ten and then
some, sea closing up around those little chariots
the men and horses while women on the far shore shook
their tambourines. And then what? Forty years to get the smell
of slavery off them.

Because of this. Bloody Nile. My story one of
the lucky. Escape hatch even from my own
obsess—

I am here because of this.
Because of what my ancestors did for me to tell this
story of the outstretched hand what it did for me this
marked door and behind this red-marked door, around
a corner a blue-eyed boy waits to love me up with his
leavened bread, his slim body, professional detachment,
medical advancements, forgive me my father’s mother’s
father was the last in a long line of Rabbis—again! with this? This
rhapsody of affliction and escape, the mind bobbing along
in its watery safe. Be like everyone. Else. Indistinguishable but
better than the other nations but that’s what got us into this, Allen,
no one writes these long-ass poems anymore. Now we’re
better, all better. All Christian. Kind.

— Rachel Zucker (b. 1971), American Poet, from Columbia Poetry Review #18, 2005.

Video Poetry (Suicidal Edition)

flahute — Thu, 01 May 2008 13:59:33 +0000

SUICIDAL TENDENCIES – INSTITUTIONALIZED

Sometimes I try to do things, and it just doesn’t work out the way I want it to, and I get real frustrated, and like, I try hard to do it, and I like, take my time, but it just doesn’t work out the way I want it to, it’s like I concentrate on it real hard, but it just doesn’t work out, and everything I do and everything I try, it never turns out, it’s like I need time to figure these things out, but there’s always someone there going:

- Hey Mike, you know, we’ve been noticing you’ve been having a lot of problems lately, you know, and you should maybe get away, and like, maybe you should talk about it, you’ll feel a lot better.

And I go:

- No, it’s ok, you know, I’ll figure it out, just leave me alone, I’ll figure it out, you know, I’ll just work it out myself.

And they go:

- Well, you know, if you wanna talk about it, I’ll be here, you know, and you’ll probably feel a lot better if you talk about it, so why don’t you talk about it?

I go:

- No, I don’t want to, I’m okay, I’ll figure it out myself!

And they just keep bugging me, they just keep bugging me, and it builds up inside!

So you’re gonna be institutionalized
You’ll come out brainwashed with bloodshot eyes
You won’t have any say
They’ll brainwash you until you see their way

I’m not crazy – institutionalized
You’re the one who’s crazy – institutionalized
You’re driving me crazy – institutionalized

They stick me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy, myself

I was in my room, and I was just, like, staring at the walls, thinking about everything, but then again I was thinking about nothing, and then my mom came in and I didn’t notice she was there and she called my name and I didn’t hear her and then she started screaming:

- Mike, Mike!

And I go:

- What, what’s the matter?

She goes:

- What’s the matter with you?

I go:

- There’s nothing wrong, mom

She goes:

- Don’t tell me that! You’re on drugs!

I go:

- No mom, I’m not on drugs, I’m ok, I’m just thinking, you know, why don’t you get me a Pepsi?

She goes:

- No, you’re on drugs!

I go:

- Mom, I’m okay, I’m just thinking

And she goes:

- No, you’re not thinking, you’re on drugs! Normal people don’t act that way!

I go:

- Mom, just get me a Pepsi, please, all I want is a Pepsi

And she wouldn’t give it to me! All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn’t give it to me! Just a Pepsi!

They give you a white shirt with long sleeves
Tied around you’re back, you’re treated like thieves
Drug you up because they’re lazy
It’s too much work to help a crazy

I’m not crazy – institutionalized
You’re the one who’s crazy – institutionalized
You’re driving me crazy – institutionalized

They stick me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me the needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy, myself

I was sitting in my room, and my mom and my dad came in, and they pulled up a chair and they sat down, they go:

- Mike, we need to talk to you.

And I go:

- Okay, what’s the matter?

They go:

- Me and your mom, we’ve been noticing lately you’ve been having a lot of problems, and you’ve been going off for no reason, and we’re afraid you’re going to hurt somebody, and we’re afraid you’re gonna hurt yourself, so we decided that it would be in your best interest if we put you somewhere where you could get the help that you need.

And I go:

- Wait, what are you talking about?! WE decided?! MY best interest?! How do you know what MY best interest is?! How can you say what MY best interest is?! What are you trying to say? I’m crazy?! When I went to YOUR schools, I went to YOUR churches, I went to YOUR institutional learning facilities?! So how can you say I’m crazy?

They say they’re gonna fix my brain
Alleviate my suffering and my pain
But by the time they fix my head
Mentally I’ll be dead

I’m not crazy – institutionalized
You’re the one that’s crazy – institutionalized
You’re driving me crazy – institutionalized

They stick me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me the needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy, myself

It doesn’t matter, I’ll probably get hit by a car anyway.

Zuiker

flahute — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 21:39:59 +0000

From The Economist.com:

Sweetness and Light

Low-calorie sweeteners may make people fat

ARTIFICIAL sweeteners have long been touted as being good for the calorie-conscious. Unfortunately, a study just published in Behavioral Neuroscience by Susan Swithers and Terry Davidson of Purdue University in Indiana suggests that such compounds may actually end up making people fatter than they otherwise would be.

Dr Swithers and Dr Davidson came to this conclusion after a series of experiments on rats. In addition to standard laboratory food, they fed some animals yogurt flavoured with saccharin, while others had yogurt flavoured to the same degree of sweetness with normal sugar.

The researchers then carried out two experiments on their animals. One merely tracked the rats’ weight over five weeks. This found that rats eating sweetener gained more weight than those eating sugar. The other experiment was more subtle. After two weeks on yogurt, the rats were given an unexpected treat—a chocolate pudding loaded with calories. Both groups gobbled this up. However, those animals that had been eating sugared yogurt reduced the amount of yogurt they ate for their next meal in proportion to the number of chocolate-flavoured calories they had consumed. Those on the sweetener made no such adjustment.

Dr Swithers and Dr Davidson also measured the body temperatures of their charges before and during the chocolate meal. In normal animals the brain raises the body’s temperature before and during eating. This is to prepare for the energy-intensive job of digestion. As expected, those rats on the sugar diet showed a normal temperature rise. Those on the sweetener, however, showed a diminished increase in temperature, suggesting that their physiology was in some way affected.

The cause, Dr Swithers and Dr Davidson think, is a disruption in the connection that the brain makes between sweetness and calories. Past research suggests that the brain thinks that sweetness is a sign of highly calorific food. Dr Swithers and Dr Davidson argue that artificial sweeteners confuse things. After repeated exposure to sweeteners, the brain forgets the connection and thus fails to stop the animal eating at an appropriate point.

It therefore looks possible that low-calorie artificial sweeteners are a contributory factor to the rising number of people who are obese. What an irony.

Terwijl te veel zuiker is slecht voor je, schijnt het dat te veel namaaksuiker slechter is.

So this explains it!

flahute — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 14:57:13 +0000

Everyone has a particular body type to which they are most attracted … for me, it’s always been petite women with nice round hips/butts. Breast size has always been less important; in fact, most of the time I seem to prefer women with smaller chests … but I’ve always liked the butt.

I am, to put it somewhat crassly, an ass-man. Some people have called me an asshole, but that’s a different situation altogether; one which I’ve been working very hard to change.

I’ve always wondered how attraction works … why I have one particular body type that I like, and why others like another body type. Well, now there’s some research telling me why I like my particular type.

Reported this morning on CBS News:

Are Curvier Women Smarter?

(CBS) New research finds an apparent, direct correlation between women’s body fat and intelligence.

As CBS News correspondent Susan McGinnis reported on The Early Show Tuesday, the study shows women with fuller, “hourglass” figures seem to be smarter, and give birth to brighter children.

The research, published this week in the journal “Evolution and Human Behavior,” indicates hips don’t lie. In effect, says the study of some 16,000 women, the smaller your waist and bigger your hips, the smarter you are.

And, McGinnis points out, there’s a formula: Divide waist circumference by hip circumference. The lower the result, the better.

For instance, notes McGinnis, Jennifer Lopez’s waist measures 26 inches, her hips, 39 — for a waist-to-hip ratio of point-66. The less curvy Keira Knightley’s waist is 25 inches, and her hips, 33, for a ratio of point-76.

The researchers say it has to do with omega-3 fatty acids, which gather around fuller hips and thighs, and are important for the growth of the brain during pregnancy. The curvier the hips, the higher the level of omega-3s.

It may also explain other studies that show men prefer women with a low waist-to-hip ratio.

Not only that but, according to the research, women with smaller waists and larger hips — live longer!

I do have to admit that I find Keira Knightly FAR more attractive than Jennifer Lopez … but that may just be the exception that proves the rule.