This linguistics manual I held in my hands an hour in total said that sentences are the smallest meaningful elements of a language, not words. Even one word, if expressed linguistically (with the intent of communicating) is at the core a sentence. “Go!” is “I want you to go”.
Some time after reading this — and with no apparent connection to it — I wondered: “What comes first, a photo or a video?”. It was clear to me that, actually, there was a connection. The word (just like the photo) is a casual extraction of the sentence (the video). The latter belongs to reality, where nothing doesn’t move. We can shed some light on reality and capture its temporary and still form, but there will be as much said (the word) as assumed (the rest of the implied sentence).
Think about these one-word utterances:
”Joke”
”Sure”
”Island”
”Shit”
It doesn’t matter how many words you’re adding in your head, it could even be none, but you’re adding a story and a movement. There’s something bigger behind those words, they can’t stand on their own.
And if you see a picture? (And that’s precisely why I don’t like it when people are posing) You assume the people portrayed, even objects, were existing in a moving form and were captured “stopping”.
It’s kind of cool, isn’t it? If I say “here”, do you imagine it’s me inviting you to join me where I am, or me telling you I’m firm on my (physical) position, or me pointing to where you hurt me? What story we add to simple statements is basically asking how do still things move in our head.
Dopamine, one of my closest friends and archest enemies, is “the molecule of more” (this is how Lieberman and Long titled their book). More is what we often associate to it. But dopamine is also the molecule of elsewhere. Analogies are made with its help, because they need us to see what’s not there. Dopamine creates a movement. What’s present only matters insofar as it alludes to something not present or not ours that we’ll find or get.
On top of these reflections, that at this point are piling up one on top of the other, I start thinking that we shouldn’t say that someone who took drugs is “high”, because it would be more accurate to say they are someplace else. Being intoxicated simply moves you from where you are to another place you didn’t know until that moment.
And at this point it’s clear to me that despite how interesting these free associations are, and how something more linear might even come out of them, they are the product of a struggle. My mind (with the help of some variables, like August) can’t find stillness. It frantically moves at all times making connections, starting new conversations (while getting intensely attached to finishing all of them), initiating projects, making a point and debating it, engaging in full cycles of speculation, jumping with tired legs between here and there.
This makes this sequence of words much less eager to come out, and you’ll be asked to shift from reading something informational, albeit delusively so, to something personal, and making an assessment on whether you’re willing to get a bit closer.
It doesn’t matter how close you get, though, because this chemical productivity is only accessible to me, and I can explain it, but you won’t hear the noise if you listen carefully, and you won’t see the chaos if you put a straw in my ear.
What explains it is perhaps the metaphors and changes, the moving quality of my speech and my writing, that feels neutral at times but mostly feels very good or very bad. When it’s very good, these series of inferences on movement and stillness can become something interesting to read, or one my philosophical side quests that will turn into something that looks nothing like its premises. In another life, it would have been a perfect drive for an academic career, or it would have made me stick to playing piano.
When it’s bad (we’re only referring to feelings here, not moral judgements), I’m confronted with the limits of a body that is better suited for words and for images, or could at least benefit from a more varied diet. A body can’t possibly contain all this back and forth. Yet it does. It can’t decide not to. It has to host these intruders because they are already in, they never knocked to come inside. They are, in a way, older than the house itself.
Some things are given and other are chosen. I have the privilege of even questioning what to do with this silly brain, and the answer (a generous average of all months, not just the summer ones) so far has been: I keep it as it is. The good is alive, bright, curious, hungry, amazed. Half my life would not exist if it wasn’t this way, and the other half (when I’m sleeping) would certainly have much quieter dreams.
But it’s not an easy choice. The fifth time I pick up my nightstand voice recorder (the fact that I need to give it a name based on location should already tell you there are more) because I have another thought on movement, I can hear my brain laugh at me. And I have to remind myself how funny I find it at times, whereas at this moment it feels like bullying.
Empatherapy 