Sunday, September 29, 2002

"What is this?"

"Brahm's third symphony. Third movement. Magnificent, isn't it."

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I've heard this before. Where have I heard this before? Play it back, Jesse. I have to figure this out right now or it will definitely consume me....Again.....Supernatural! It's from the Santana album. The second track--the Dave Mathews duet."

Friday, September 27, 2002

Syntaesthesia rules. It confounds reason, and we scarcely notice. We feel a match between two fingers and a matchbook resting in our palm. We see fingers, palm, matchbook, match, matchbook--all in order with what our touching hands tell us. Lighting a match. The flame appears to sit and dance about the matchhead. Simultaneously, we hear a faint sound. From where in the visual/somatosensory scene, fused by our sense of touch and sight, does this sound emenate? Does it emenate from that scene at all?
Hume claims that no cause and effect connection has an ultimately reasonable foundation. He looks into the central sanctum of reason and finds--habit. How much the more so should we suspect ourselves for claiming connections between sights and sounds upon the pedastol of reason.
We understand the world in fused sensory scenes. We recognize no other world.
I spent the summer peaking inside people's brains and asking how and why. My mentor continues the quest.

Monday, September 23, 2002

Like a minuteman, caught sleeping on guard, my brain starts up suddenly, agitated by nothing but its own inertia, temporarily misplaced. Then it collapses, as quickly as it had risen, into a formless jello-mass on the floor beside my bed. From about 11am-2:30pm, my jello-mass allows itself to be dragged grudgingly around, producing little besides one very clear conviction: two hours was a bad idea.
My weekly marathon in the student publishing office, running almost continuously from about 1pm Wednesday straight through to Thursday morning, had ended at 9am--Issue #3 went to bed two hours earlier than it had in previous weeks, and I rushed accross the Main Green to grab these two found hours. This was a very bad idea. Two hours is nothing but a thorough preparation for sleep, and this is how I awoke. Not rested, but feeling the need quite intensely. After some hours of groggy battles for consciousness, aided by my once-enemy, now-temporary-ally Caffiene, I regained the sleepless giddiness that have come to characterized my Thursdays.
for all those interested in following my weekly labor, you can come to the baby shower thursday nights at If you want to watch me give birth, and hear me scream through the contractions and labor pains, you'll have to visit me some Wednesday night in the delivery room.