What if, sometime when you’re off-guard, when you’re walking with the purpose of doing
whatever it is you do, a peculiar ringing, something, a sound of some sort, emanates from
somewhere and floats through your head with your ears as doorways and in a second is gone?
And if you think nothing of it, later as the sun sets or rises or turns on, blazing warmth, or
whatever it does where you come from, you think of that sound you heard or witnessed before,
and you can’t replicate it in your mind’s ears with even the most powerful of your efforts,
and you know you must hear it again, so you wade through the auditory whirlpool of your
surroundings and individually test each ambient click from every corner and recess of the world
but find your search fruitless, and so unearth every object in your household and strike it pluck it
ring it cause it to make its natural sound.
But if no amount of attempts produce that elusive eerie ringing you once, maybe, might have
heard, then you may begin to accumulate objects, pots pans or any and all forms metal takes in
your world, making of each every combination of sound systematically, in a sort of auditory
alchemy, and thus your home may become cluttered with tiny and large singing things, an
orchestra of objects, perhaps, until every room and surface and cranny is occupied, and so you
must spread them out upon the sidewalk, crashing together each, taking each and attempting and
hoping to achieve that elusive sound. And though the ringings you create are not your ringing,
they are the ringings of other people, and they return to hear them each day, gather. And the
people they might call you the sound man.
And the children, maybe they stop by on their way to their tasks and toss you a fork or a needle
or a piece of sheet metal, copper steel silver brass gold, and smile and scurry off. Maybe
each time you take the new item of the sidewalk arsenal and hit the floor your skull the other
numerous bits of metal-ware, because you have been chosen to produce this one sound, that
sound you experienced, maybe, before, but no ringing of any of the objects creates the ringing,
that ringing you heard that one day,
And as you age the people they talk after gathering, they speak of the sound man and his
percussive obsession, his need to create what he calls the ringing, and far into your decline (your
nineties, maybe, or whatever old is wherever you are), they seem to all be telling you that you
will never hear the ringing you seek, and you never believe them until one day when you start
to think that maybe, just maybe, they are right, or, worse, maybe you wouldn’t recognize the
ringing if you heard it, or, worst of all, maybe, just maybe, you never heard the ringing at all—
If so, enraged, you’d heft a steel pot and throw it screaming at the sidewalk where it would crash
horribly, dent bounce scratch and skid on the pavement, and weeping you’d scatter your years of
accumulated metalwork and bend them and shatter them to shrapnel, and then collapse into the
wreckage of your world sobbing.
But maybe as you cry a little girl might approach and she might hold out to you a tiny silver
spoon (or any object or utensil created for someone small), and you’d hesitate, then take it and
flick it and hold it to your ear. And as you listen, what if you were to realize that this is the
ringing, and that you have been hearing it all your life?
Presented within the flow of the lives of real people and fictional characters, this is a gentle introduction to how some parts of the brain work.
Blue vs. Red
by Leena Prasad
topic
politics
region
amygdala, ACC
“…My plan will continue to reduce the carbon pollution that is heating our planet – because climate change is not a hoax. More droughts and floods and wildfires are not a joke. They are a threat to our children’s future. And in this election you can do something about it,” said Barack Obama. On the contrary, Mitt Romney said, “I’m not in this race to slow the rise of the oceans or to heal the planet.”
President Obama and Governor Romney’s views represent those of their constituency. According to a 2011 Gallup poll, 70% of Democrats “Worry a great deal / fair amount” about climate change, as opposed to only 31% of Republicans. This difference in the Democratic and Republican belief systems can have significant policy impacts regarding climate change.
From a scientific perspective, some of the general differences between Democrats/liberals and Republicans/conservatives can be observed in the workings of the brain. Much of the neuroscience research, however, that has been done in this area is inconclusive, and the results are controversial. This article is not an exploration into the why or how these differences formed but it is an explanation of the differences that were discovered amongst the representative samples of subjects who self-identified as Republicans or Democrats or conservative or liberal.
A study conducted at University College of London in 2010 concluded that conservatives have a larger amygdala than liberals. The amygdala is responsible for emotional reactions that activate the fight-or-flight response. Other parts of the brain often moderate the primitive survival instincts of the amygdala and guide human behavior. The methods used for the study and the results are highly controversial and have not passed the scientific rigor of replication and peer review. Furthermore, there is no scientific correlation between the size and activity of the amygdala.
There are other studies, however, which found differences that have been replicated by many scientists. A consortium of scientists based in San Diego, discovered that when participating in risk-taking behavior, Republicans show a higher level of activity in the amygdala than Democrats. Democrats, on the other hand, show higher activity in the Anterior Cingulate Cortex (ACC) when presented with the same risk-taking tasks. The ACC is involved in many functions, both cognitive and emotional, but one of its primary jobs is to resolve conflict. A study published in Nature Neuroscience also describes higher activity in the ACC when liberals made a mistake in pattern recognition. They were able to correct the mistake and improve performance at a faster pace than their conservative counterparts.
Other parts of the brain are also involved in processing information and issues on the political spectrum. As such, these differences are not sufficient to pinpoint brain dynamics. More extensive studies are required to both understand the differences and the means for communication with brains that exhibit these differences.
For now, how do we negotiate the differences in the belief systems and find a common ground? That’s beyond the scope of this article. But, understanding some of the differences in brain structure can at least provide an insight that the differences are hardwired in the brain. There are many studies that demonstrate that brain chemistry can be changed. This means that communication and negotiation can serve a useful purpose. If Mitt Romney and President Obama cannot agree, perhaps they can find a way to talk to each other and negotiate differences with a common goal of creating a harmonious existence for all Americans.
Upcoming…
December: neuroplasticity, the brain’s ability to change
January: food for thought, i.e., the affect of food on your brain
Leena Prasad has a writing portfolio at http://FishRidingABike.com and a journalism degree from Stanford University. Links to earlier stories in her monthly column can be found at http://WhoseBrainIsIt.com.
Dr. Nicola Wolfe is a neuroscience consultant for this column. She earned her Ph.D. in Clinical Psychopharmacology from Harvard University and has taught neuroscience courses for over 20 years at various universities.
References:
1. Darren Schreiber, et al. Red Brain, Blue Brain: Evaluative Processes Differ in Democrats and Republicans, Emerging Politics, 2009, [http://www.politicsemerging.com/Publications/RedBrainBlueBrain.pdf]
2. David M. Amodio et al. Neurocognitive correlates of liberalism and conservatism, Nature Neuroscience, September 9, 2007.
3. Mooney, Chris. The Republican Brain: The Science of Why They Deny Science–and Reality. John Wiley and Sons.
4. Mitt Romney’s Climate Change Remarks On ‘Meet The Press’ Outrage Environmental Activists, Huffington Post, Sep. 10, 2012
5. Obama Counterpunches on Climate Change, New York Times, Sep 7, 2012
Imagine a woman who trusts and respects herself. A woman who listens to her needs and desires. Who meets them with tenderness and grace.
You are that woman, full of knowledge, wisdom, understanding and grace. You are that woman who’s gone through trials and tribulations, yet you’re still able to face the day. You are that women, who breathes and has life, that woman who can make a difference regardless of your circumstances and strife. You are that woman that God has given a second chance, God has given you chance and chance and chance. You value you, you are valued, you are loved inside of homes, walls, and hubs, you are a shining star and your heart beats as bright as your smile, you are the wow factor, inspired, the center of attention in any crowd. You value yourself and others and you are always willing to commit to change. You are Globally known in your mind and that will never change. You Queen-being with the sound mind, continue to be productive, continue to lift minds, continue to be peace, continue to be love, continue to make an impact on the man up above. And because hes kept you safe, you are full of gratitude, you have favor where ever you roam, Your whole world is behind you. Your whole world is backing you, people of importance respect you, because of your milestone attitude they always love you. But Ms. You, keep doing you, you love you like no one will ever do, and when you love others the love that comes to you is a thousand multitude, and you have the God of peace upon you. Keep your spirit clean, keep your soul right, God has never lost sight on you, Ms Ruby, Ms Soothe because you are you, and no one can do you better, you will continue to be blessed by your very own Alpha and Omega.
The grey shooting pyramid’s point stands prominent against brilliant blue as tourists aim cameras by the transaction of Broadway and Columbus with the Condor on the corner and the flying books with fallen words in front of the blue jazz mural bricks above. Andes Cosmos pan pipes float from beyond city lights. Here journals leather bound and images on street wall hold great possibility in alley cat scent as beat poet, deep set wrinkle line face folds and creases with gentleness. Water puddles from street cleaning, reflects anger from a man who sits and spits his life in monologue to the audience of a thousand ghosts inside himself by the entrance of City Lights. All we need is love. Where is his? Does science rule over everything else? No. There are things unknown invisible which float and heal, which touch and moves us. One needs to want this though. No judgment. Is it in genes? So many men sleep on streets, dirty beards with eyes glazed ~ the crazy eye glaze of lost soul. Peer through these windows for a second chill, the mysterious draw, the unknown knowing that something isn’t right here, the window to a room of rewind, of ghastly sorrow, of brokenness, of no return, of door slam shut, no way home, ghoul shock, moment of horror, frozen in time, for nothing to be the same again. Schizophrenia becomes company, walking hand in hand with constant static sound. No rest. No happiness. No forgiveness. Crazy sits on the corner of the street, angry as music and art appears around him and grows, dancing in circles and waves. The water puddles evaporate with the morning sun, the interval between songs is still, void now of shout streams of insanity as the sun slowly swings around Vusuvio’s.
Mister Chris Jeffries arrives walking down the alley behind green shades and an accordion with two friends carrying guitars like desperados. Gypsy jazz unravels itself, with crowds stopping, clicking photos, swaying smiling, notes flutter down to open empty case with nods of thanks and singing smiles. A fusion of music and art brings attention from wine sipping lovers sitting by the window above in the bar looking down.
Unknowingly, I hear a thought and say pardon to a woman with a long brown curly mane.
“I did not say a word. I am from Spain. This is my last day. I had to come down. I was upstairs with my boyfriend.” She points up; my eyes follow to a man, his head cradled in his hand, his face obscured by the reflection of the glass, z’s float through the open window. I look away. “I had to come down. I am a dancer.”
Later, she requests Spanish music. I see her dancing in the street.
“This is my kind of music.” She says, shaking her mane.
Later still, she strums a guitar sitting on the floor. Musicians share music, attention and time, juggling, smoking, dancing and talking. A celebration of strengths rejoices in the alley. Before she leaves, she appears before me and directs enchantment into my ear. The surprise of her holding my hands and the look in her eyes stirs emotion within. Tears form in my throat, I swallow them done. She leaves.
A guarded Parisian’s walls melt through stomp flamenco dance groove spin boogie, impromptu sing jamming and days spent outside together. The bashful, delicate flutter blink of her eyes meets mine through spins and laughter. There is space between for trust to grow as subtle attraction stems. In these times, communication is seldom with words, instead another plain, where indescribable notions appear invisible, a magic Cosmo roll around, children know without knowing, it lies in the innocence of all of this as we move through neutrinos, listening without ears, absorbing sensations, discovering new language. She is gentle and timid like a deer, with one stumble or loud rustle, she would dart away.
As the sun sets and the street lights cast fuzzy yellow glows over the alley, I bid farewell to the remaining sweet souls of the travelling photoman’s show. The Parisian deer will leave in the night for home. We embrace. On parting, the world again slows, like in those magic moments, which surprises us by appearing in the smallest words, actions, gestures, which poof appear and swoosh are gone forever; time stretches to the plain of what is. Something holds our bodies close, the connection unbroken, now face to face, in this sweet embrace of space, the air whispers with no words, gently it cradles us for centuries, we remain in the harmony we create, peacefully. I draw away, the connection parts, seconds tick like thunder as my mind kicks back in, dashing like it slept in for work to reconfigure, to catagorise something it can never fathom. The street becomes loud with chitter chatter and the moment has passed, collected in an ethereal scrapbook of wow.
The next day, a distant land phones.
“What have you been up to? Nothing. Loafing.” Asked and answered in half a breath by a man who I still hanker after for some connection, for some affection, for some acceptance, forever chasing an elusive thread which would connect. I agree with him, tired of justifying my existence.
Here I realize that unless witnessed, unless times are shared and experienced together by past reruns with new faces and different places or shock start right now understanding or from future endeavours then others will not know, will never grasp what it is, that all could be seen as wasted, that all could be gathered and held as priceless. That we ultimately stand alone in the company of those who have forgotten and are playfully nudged wink reminded by those who still remember.
****************************************
The Woman and the Wind
We dance and for a second she forgets and feels free.
I see the beauty that is in her breathe
before a rooted thought of wrong doing enters and she kneels down,
blindly searching for the chain to shackle herself back into the cage.
For she loves the ones who created the walls
and she hasn’t the strength to break those down,
not when it means destroying all she knows.
I watch her sit there and hum so sweetly,
changing tears to a tune,
distracting herself with so many other things
which fills her time and her space,
but there’s no stopping the racing of a heart,
it’s a magic science, a crazy chemistry,
which bolts thunder claps from the brain to the belly,
that moves the body quicker than lightning and the mind blinded,
cannot keep up with the heart of the body.
Flash!
Her body moves with another of the same form,
like an ocean with the shore, over and over,
it soothes as it moves.
The light is followed with a BANG!
The cell door clatters open and slams shut with a bewildered wind,
as she remembers that all she feels is not allowed
and retreats out of a cherished love for those who fail to understand.
The wind does not strike her; it is not angry, but gentle and warm.
It cradles her when she’s sad and lifts her high when she’s feeling blue,
it does not control her with fear, but with comfort and love.
It tickles her and makes her smile,
all the time misunderstanding the black shape which moves on the floor.
The wind wishes to blow it away, it uses bigger and bigger puffs,
and afterwards is left exhausted.
The black mark is unfathomable to the wind.
”It’s still there, that dirty black mark which follows you around.
Why can’t you leave her be?” It howls.
And she cries out with a muted voice,
which echoes the temples of distant lands.
“It is a part of me!”
The wind howls again, anguished and sad,
blowing the words spoken away,
unable to hear them through distortion of pain.
It picks itself up for another gust and another,
“Why won’t it leave? The place will look so much cleaner
without that black mark which keeps following you around.”
It blows unrelenting,
like a house proud mother wiping at a stubborn wooden table top stain,
unknowing that it is a knot, a natural pattern of the wood.
“Please, let it be. It is a part of me.” whispers the wood and the woman.
The wind slowly stops dancing and becomes heavy,
which sinks her radiant smile and twinkling star eyes to black holes.
I see the blindness of the wind, blowing at the black mark,
with more gust and enthusiasm at seeing improvement and progress,
as the mark moves away by the power the wind possesses, or so it thinks,
only it does not realize, that it is her beloved that it blows into a ball,
over and over, tied in knots, until she cannot breathe.
The wind does not see the position she is in.
It does not see the vases knocked over and smashed to smithereens,
like salt bubbles that explode from her eyes
when she loses control and snivel sniff cries,
“I don’t want to be so sensitive to this,
but it scares me so much to be cold and unaffected by it all.
When I think of homophobia,
I think of bullies spitting comments in a crowd or on a street,
of hate crimes and terrible things like these.
I never in my wildest dreams thought it could be like this.”
Flowers lay unnoticed on the broken glass ground,
trodden on by all those others who don’t look down.
(and jeez, there are many, too many for there to be more)
Hold up ~
For all the guns in the world, that ends a life with less than a thought,
could we not shoot each other a smile from time to time and try,
just try to get along, it is after all only love.
The rest doesn’t really matter,
it is only love that connects us all, that gets us through~
Thank you, now back to the poem…
As the wind blows unrelenting at her shadow,
wishing for it to not be there,
she stands up strong and bold through the blinding, deafening gale.
She does not move an inch by the gust, her hair wild like flames licking up to heaven,
she says, “My shadow exists because I have found light,
for it to disappear I shall live in darkness,
and like the bird set free from its cage,
it cannot return, once it knows what it has learnt.”
The thing which she needs now more than ever, is not shelter from the wind,
but for the wind to blow down the walls it has created over time,
and hold her in acceptance,
for no one knows more than the wind,
how wonderful and important it is to be free from all these things.
Curiously, Strindberg’s five chamber plays have never been presented before in repertory (not even in Sweden, which is something of a scandal), which is as remarkable as if Wagner’s “Ring” had never been done complete, or as if nobody had ever had the idea of doing Shakespeare’s Wars of the Roses plays as a series.
Because, though each of these short, darkly poetic plays can be presented alone, and at least one of them, “The Ghost Sonata,” has had a long afterlife on the stage, in combination they form a chain of theatrical experiences of a density of cross-reference and tortured poetry of ever-deepening resonance and power. Looking back over the past century since their creation, one can see the forest of much of modern drama and even cinema – from O’Neill to Pinter, from Victor Sjostrom to Ingmar Bergman – sprouting from their much turned-over soil San Francisco’s Cutting Ball Theater, which, as part of the Strindberg centennial year celebrations, is producing the cycle in repertory this fall, is thus doing the entire theatrical world a service.
More than a service; more like a gift. At least in the three plays I’ve seen so far, under Rob Melrose’s canny direction, with handsomely appointed sets by Michael Locher, beautifully judged costumes by Anna R. Oliver, the subtle touch of lighting designer York Kennedy, and the superbly crafted sound design by Cliff Carruthers – and above all thanks to a fine cast, about which more below – this production promises to be one of the Bay Area’s theatrical events of the year.
No small part of the beauty of the project is that The Cutting Ball’s tiny theater on Taylor Street in San Francisco is almost the exact size these plays were written for, creating an intimacy and intensity that are rarely found outside the finest, subtlest and most profound chamber music.
The plays I have seen are the last three in the series, but I wanted to get the word out before the series closes in November: “The Ghost Sonata,” one of Strindberg’s most famous plays, a tale of revenge gone out of control among a household of people locked in the past, recoiling in the end even on the avenger; the ironically titled “The Pelican,” the most typically Strindbergian of the series in that it dwells on the love-hatred, mutual incomprehension and unfaithfulness, that so often informs the bond between men and women, and that seems to be Strindberg’s final assessment of the war between the sexes – a necessary evil in the evil necessity of life and its procreative compulsion; and “The Black Glove,” the last of the series, and a sweeter, tangier, gentler, and wittier conclusion than one might have expected from the oft-gloomy Swede. Even he can’t quite reach the conclusion, despite having had a hard time avoiding it, that human life is at bottom a sham and a waste of everyone’s time: after all, without being alive, we would never have the pleasure of watching Strindberg dissect human existence and find it so wanting.
In any play, of course, the meat comes in two portions: the script and the acting. And in the case of a script written in a foreign tongue, the translator has at least as much responsibility as the author – and in this Paul Walsh excels in turning Strindberg’s perfervid Swedish into largely plausible contemporary American English, in spite of a few tonal anachronisms.
But who gives life to a play? Who makes it breathe and live, fascinate our minds, bond our souls, thieve away our hearts? The actors, of course. And this cycle tests an ensemble like few others. Several of the actors should be singled out: Caitlyn Louchard, who appears in central roles in all three plays, shows a light touch and charming variety; James Carpenter provides his dependably strong presence in “The Ghost Sonata” and “The Black Glove,” wily and wise, cunning and dotty as need be; Anne Hallinan is a delight in the smaller roles, and gives almost alarming weight to The Cook in “The Ghost Sonata.” Carl Holvick-Thomas is particularly strong as Axel in “The Black Glove,” though he doesn’t show quite so secure a grip on The Student in “The Ghost Sonata.” In fact, the actors taking on the ephebes often don’t quite ring true. Strindberg is partly to blame: the lines he gives them don’t always ring true either.
David Sinaiko steals most of his scenes as the Puckish spirit of mischief and reconciliation Yule-Tomte in “The Black Glove”: who knew Strindberg could be so endearing, so sweet, so funny?
Danielle O’Hare, with her dramatic beauty, spare features and command of a gesture at once richly suggestive and sharply defined, brings a furious intensity to her role as the mother in “The Pelican;” her presence in minor roles in the other plays is as memorable as it is welcome. She seems to have walked out of a Bergman film to grace the world of Bergman’s prophetic ancestor.
Christopher Bernard is a novelist, poet, and critic. He is author of the novel A Spy in the Ruins and co-editor of the online arts magazine Caveat Lector.
Who knew that at thirty years old, I’d still get excited over songs about trolls, rocks, and Rapunzel? I did last night at StageWerx Theatre, now tucked away among the curio shops, ethnic markets and avant-garde galleries of the Mission District.
The show was part of the Underground Sound series, taking place every second Sunday evening at StageWerx and designed to showcase new music. The intimate, freshly renovated venue allows audiences to hear the lyrics, and is sparsely decorated in black and white to draw attention onstage.
The first opening act, guitarist and singer Bryan Hill, serenaded us with a few tightly crafted, thoughtful pieces, including a bluegrass blessing his grandmother used to sing to him as a child. Then, to perk us up before Jhene Canody took the stage, he played a livelier tune about a man and his pet dog.
Canody mixed some poignant, dreamy pieces, laments for love gone wrong and right, with a few peppy, humorous fantasy ballads. One related the tale of a dream wedding to Jack the Ripper officiated by her fifth grade teacher, and another gently described the awkwardness of feeling so much more privileged than others for no good reason.
After an intermission, singer and songwriter Tom Sway took the stage alone for his first three pieces. Although his songs were quite fast and I couldn’t make out every word, he caught my attention with his energy and facial expressions. Sway knows how to engage an audience, entertaining with his persona in a way only a live show can capture.
While often playful, Sway’s lyrics never became corny or ridiculous because of his subtle observations about life and human nature. His first piece, an upbeat fantasy about a lake with tiny rocks and hermits fishing where there are no fish, but he worked in mentions here and there about the tragicomedy of life. Not enough to sound self-consciously ‘deep’, but just to make audiences take a step back and reflect.
Another song, my personal favorite, tells of a man fascinated by a female dancer/mermaid/mythical creature who steals and then returns his car. He panics, but when she comes back, he ends up going with the flow and enjoying being with her. Although clearly fanciful, the piece made me think of how many times in life I feel sidetracked or frustrated, then decide to just be okay and live in the moment.
Later on, along with emcee Bruce Pachtman on drums and Phil Casey on piano, he performed a set of longer, perky pieces. These included a jazz-esque love song, a long storytelling session about searching for treasure in the desert, and a remake of the Rapunzel tale, which got us tapping our feet and relating to the characters’ loneliness.
Sway refers to his musical group as an ‘orchestra,’ from which he decided to eliminate brass, strings and woodwinds for playful reasons. The orchestra provided interesting and complex accompaniment, complementing and sometimes mellowing out Sway’s onstage personality. All three performers came together nicely for the last piece, a group signature tune about a deserted Midwestern high school football stadium that left me clapping in rhythm and remembering my teen years.
Tom Sway’s a native to San Francisco and writes his own songs. His music’s very accessible, fun to listen to, and a good alternative to angsty or inane tunes you might find elsewhere. It’s worth catching the next time you’re in town, live if possible!
Cristina Deptula is a writer from San Leandro, California. She can be reached at cedeptula@sbcglobal.net.
