We Drive with Insight in our Smiles

[Orcas Island]

We’re rounding the corner at breakneck speed, the serpentine double yellow glows our high intensity high beams, as edgy chemicals run down our throat backs, tweaking our brains. While passing a CD cover littered with lines of untested trypamines, signs blurred into nonsense, arraigned from white-tailed deer skittering across a blacktop psychically marred with carcasses of all those who didn’t succeed. The radio is a lifeguard’s megaphone, cartooning us with dialogue bubbles, petty emotions want to fill in, and the road weaves the car sensuously into questions dots underline, covering trees removed for straightness, whose roots deeply penetrate the ground. Deep, lush, greenery waves its auto-inspirited winds across terse shoulders, mowed ages-past, and the challenge of feeling hours evolving, let alone a transparent legacy of horse and buggies, wears on us. I slap myself gently, to say I have, in the process of staying awake, the speed we’ll approach imaginary moments is terrifying. Hendrix scores his sonic genius as the car hydroplanes the road’s rushing water, channeled by sad deforested hills. The whoosh of the tires sealing out fates, adorn us in solitude; we’re crammed into a small metal capsule, as numbers unwind to maps’ whims, and loud thoughts screech needles to records’ plasticity.


I type the word trypamine into the electronic dictionary, and it suggests strip-mine as an alert, or alternative. That’s funny; and it occurs to me the language is manipulated by those who publish the books, and the shadowy agencies which rebuke, reward, or regulate them. These English Oxfords are going to schools. Youth will be changed by what they contain; do not elaborate on mind-alterants, and jagged swear words. At birth, babies can hear all sounds of every language on earth, but the ability dims from the moment we’re repeatedly pointed at one; this openness actually atrophies, and dies, as the brain refocuses to the grosser subtly of what it needs to survive. The ‘perfect pitch’ of our birth in thoughts is lost, as years erode the belief we’re less happy than we wrecked our lives to be. [Luckily …]

We’re not actually adults, as far as brain development is concerned, until we’re 25 years of age. That’s why soldiers and churchgoers are recruited substantially earlier, when they’re still technically unformed. The moral judgment wiring isn’t fully operating, until our prefrontal cortex has matured; so imagine an idea that’s so complex, it takes twenty three years to flesh itself out; and even then, you’re at its starting line. In regards to non-egotistical operation in the world, most humans are cradle-borne to shallow epitaphs. We are functioning from the brain’s amylgada, reacting to early fears our higher functions ignore. The prefrontal cortex, where the [I ] self begins and ends, tells us others are separate from that which sees them. Mirrors are images selves frequent, as a reflection of not the thing itself. I provides a level of abstraction, few are desirous to optimize, to reach the religious state within oneself. Of course, all this focus on regions and structures addresses a storm of unpinpointable feelings, and is but simple modeling to relate complex, interconnected mysteriums brains are probing to digestible, intermediate shades of biological infinity.

Self realization:

The rigors of daily life in the under-activated, industrial countries rages; there are nine hundred messages in my email box, and I’m quantitatively fifty three hours short of sleep in a mere twenty day stretch of attempting to esprit fun while trying to somehow support myself. The largest rabble-rousers in life are hiding in our mirrors each morning, yet forgiving our enemies confuses them. The conundrums derived from our ongoing slattern of self, fuel the mission to express creatively, in most of life’s arenas. A generalization of what encounters whom, on this pathway of life, is a pleasant fairy tale; the real concentration camp is our mind; we fence the profound with wires which insight mangles, slipping the sacred’s savvy agents, plying us with [secret] microfiche, the double-agent bullshit, of who’s serving whom the dis of the in formation.

When you discover a loss of horizon, stop digging, for the hole is only going to get deeper, and harder to extricate your problem from.