In general, it is a spectacle to behold in all
the universe: an organ composed of 100 billion neurons, capable of:
multivariate sensation via transduction, complex emotions like love and
disgust, memory, dreams, and abstract calculations enabling travel to and
survival in, an atmosphere from which neither it nor its predecessors eternal,
evolved.
In Shannon specifically, it is not so much a marvel as a beleaguered, middling, also-ran in a world of Mensa-belonging, Ivy-league attended, Rubix cube-solving brains encased in skulls attached to bodies that employ cognitions to high IQ contingent pursuits such as multiple patent electrical engineering, rocket science with legitimate blast-off credentials, and quantitative track PhD’s in Psychology requiring the ho-hum ability to master linear algebra. Lest it is forgotten, all heretofore pursuits earn the kind of cash cachet that demarcates Shannon’s brain as a welfare applying, double-wide trailer living, cheap beer drinking kind of brain.
Certainly, the story of Shannon’s brain, like any other brain, is a story of what it isn’t, what it fails to do, of what is isn’t capable. But this story, honest though it may be, withholds, omits, and fiendishly commits biographically felonious sleight-of-hand by failing to mention the context, the environment, the nurture in the nature/nurture of Shannon’s brain that, once known, renders his brain a microcosm miracle, capable of overcoming a deep-root familial failure in letter and spirit, besting genes predisposed to the most vile, insidious of diseases: addiction, and silencing a penetrating self-hatred formed in the trauma of poverty that, with just a quick peek on Facebook or Google street view, constricted and choked others so slowly and subtly but so surely that their lives, like their breath, wheezed to nothing if not mere existence in need of relief via death.
The failure of Shannon’s brain is relative to the success of the brains of his wife’s family and their garnered accolades, inductions into academic Halls of Fame, patents and publications, and especially the monetary value associated with and resulting from those achievements: the undeniable fact of the matter is that success for any brain, Shannon’s or yours, must in part be determined by checking bank statements.
The “success” of Shannon’s brain is relative to the failures in his own family history, the absolute inability to thrive, the unadulterated disease of addiction for which failure of the will must be indicted, tried, found guilty, and summarily executed -for genes are passed down and disease runs deep as the Mariana Trench in just a vein- and the fearful choices, decisions made, horrendous and shallow in forethought are/were/will be profound in pathology. Yes, these are the only conditions in which Shannon’s brain has achieved “success.”
A holistic biography of Shannon’s brain isn’t a case of mutual exclusivity: both the failures and successes must be part of the story and both can be true at the same time. At once it is a marvel and meddling; mediocre and microcosmically miraculous; incredible and indelible while incoherent and inconsistent; underwhelming and unforgettable.
In Shannon specifically, it is not so much a marvel as a beleaguered, middling, also-ran in a world of Mensa-belonging, Ivy-league attended, Rubix cube-solving brains encased in skulls attached to bodies that employ cognitions to high IQ contingent pursuits such as multiple patent electrical engineering, rocket science with legitimate blast-off credentials, and quantitative track PhD’s in Psychology requiring the ho-hum ability to master linear algebra. Lest it is forgotten, all heretofore pursuits earn the kind of cash cachet that demarcates Shannon’s brain as a welfare applying, double-wide trailer living, cheap beer drinking kind of brain.
Certainly, the story of Shannon’s brain, like any other brain, is a story of what it isn’t, what it fails to do, of what is isn’t capable. But this story, honest though it may be, withholds, omits, and fiendishly commits biographically felonious sleight-of-hand by failing to mention the context, the environment, the nurture in the nature/nurture of Shannon’s brain that, once known, renders his brain a microcosm miracle, capable of overcoming a deep-root familial failure in letter and spirit, besting genes predisposed to the most vile, insidious of diseases: addiction, and silencing a penetrating self-hatred formed in the trauma of poverty that, with just a quick peek on Facebook or Google street view, constricted and choked others so slowly and subtly but so surely that their lives, like their breath, wheezed to nothing if not mere existence in need of relief via death.
The failure of Shannon’s brain is relative to the success of the brains of his wife’s family and their garnered accolades, inductions into academic Halls of Fame, patents and publications, and especially the monetary value associated with and resulting from those achievements: the undeniable fact of the matter is that success for any brain, Shannon’s or yours, must in part be determined by checking bank statements.
The “success” of Shannon’s brain is relative to the failures in his own family history, the absolute inability to thrive, the unadulterated disease of addiction for which failure of the will must be indicted, tried, found guilty, and summarily executed -for genes are passed down and disease runs deep as the Mariana Trench in just a vein- and the fearful choices, decisions made, horrendous and shallow in forethought are/were/will be profound in pathology. Yes, these are the only conditions in which Shannon’s brain has achieved “success.”
A holistic biography of Shannon’s brain isn’t a case of mutual exclusivity: both the failures and successes must be part of the story and both can be true at the same time. At once it is a marvel and meddling; mediocre and microcosmically miraculous; incredible and indelible while incoherent and inconsistent; underwhelming and unforgettable.
***
Be quiet. Hear that?Listen.I hear you. I hear things. I hear the hear-able and it is enough. More than enough.
I also listen. I’ve listened to you. I’ve listened to many people. I haven’t
heard a lot of sense. Not enough. There were times I listened to you and
trusted you. There were.
I am a wave conduit. I relish in sounds and impressions, words for their own sake, accents, dialects. Always have. I cherish music. I spent thousands of hours alone with it and it alone -pouring through me like an untamed river but damnable with patience and caring. I committed to music in a way I could not to people. People make noise. Music never judged... People judge so harshly. For a long time I listened and listened to music. Sometimes I couldn’t hear what I needed to hear, it seemed. I was desperate. I learned the difference between hearing and listening. I was just ignorant, green. I was willing though. Willing to put in the time and effort. It was painstaking. I grew like a weed then lost patience then wilted. I improved little by little. Miniscule steps taken with stumbles aplenty. I’ve heard so many lies. I’ve heard them from within and without. People lie. Music doesn’t lie. Music fools unintentionally. I didn’t spend enough time listening. I remember my mother’s voice. Or do I? I remember my father singing like Dan Tyminski in a parking lot in Wadsworth, Ohio. I heard B.B. King in a small theatre. I heard melodies and cried like paint spilling over the side of the can. They were so beautiful I couldn’t have cared more. I connected to the universe with the strength of a million magnets. I’ve listened to heartbeats still in the womb. Heard life unborn. I’ve heard fights break out among slurred words. Too often. I hear fear in the conscience. Maybe fear is all I hear in conscience. I listen for value judgements. My lone supersense is hearing judgements. I hear you judging me, this. I AM listening.
Maybe I’ve done something other than hear or listen. Maybe it isn’t the sounds out there in the world. Maybe it’s me the receiver. Maybe I distort and corrupt. Maybe the sounds are pure, innocent, neutral. Was it Monet that cut off his ear? How come nothing is definite? Nothing that comes through me is definite. Nothing concrete, dependable.
I am a wave conduit. I relish in sounds and impressions, words for their own sake, accents, dialects. Always have. I cherish music. I spent thousands of hours alone with it and it alone -pouring through me like an untamed river but damnable with patience and caring. I committed to music in a way I could not to people. People make noise. Music never judged... People judge so harshly. For a long time I listened and listened to music. Sometimes I couldn’t hear what I needed to hear, it seemed. I was desperate. I learned the difference between hearing and listening. I was just ignorant, green. I was willing though. Willing to put in the time and effort. It was painstaking. I grew like a weed then lost patience then wilted. I improved little by little. Miniscule steps taken with stumbles aplenty. I’ve heard so many lies. I’ve heard them from within and without. People lie. Music doesn’t lie. Music fools unintentionally. I didn’t spend enough time listening. I remember my mother’s voice. Or do I? I remember my father singing like Dan Tyminski in a parking lot in Wadsworth, Ohio. I heard B.B. King in a small theatre. I heard melodies and cried like paint spilling over the side of the can. They were so beautiful I couldn’t have cared more. I connected to the universe with the strength of a million magnets. I’ve listened to heartbeats still in the womb. Heard life unborn. I’ve heard fights break out among slurred words. Too often. I hear fear in the conscience. Maybe fear is all I hear in conscience. I listen for value judgements. My lone supersense is hearing judgements. I hear you judging me, this. I AM listening.
Maybe I’ve done something other than hear or listen. Maybe it isn’t the sounds out there in the world. Maybe it’s me the receiver. Maybe I distort and corrupt. Maybe the sounds are pure, innocent, neutral. Was it Monet that cut off his ear? How come nothing is definite? Nothing that comes through me is definite. Nothing concrete, dependable.
I fell. I’m falling. I will fall. Is there
nothing dependable? Nothing to reach for? Trust is an issue. Trust is the
issue. I can count only on myself. I’ve done that. I am doing that. Am I not?
Still there is doubt. Still there is mistrust. Still I listen and hear and
doubt and worry about what I hear and what I listen to. I do. I’ve heard that
no man is an island. I’ve heard that relationships are essential for happiness.
I’ve listened to calls and pleas. They were coming from me. Full circle.
***
Write: Write a 500 word biography of your brain. The
biography should be composed in a noun/periodic/hypotactic style. Then write a
500 word autobiography of your heart. The autobiography should be
composed in a verb/paratactic/running style. If you prefer, you can substitute
the anterior of your body for your brain, and the posterior of your body for
your heart. Or, you can use eyes, ears, nose, or mouth to replace brain/heart.
The biography/autobiography will reflect not only a shift in
stories but a change of perspective as well (3rd person to 1st).
As you write these, pay close attention to voice, and, in the case of the
autobiography, to personification.
Biography Word Count: 500
Autobiography Word Count: 500
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