Category Archives: Science

Feeling less alone, (on the nature of depression and butterflies)

Today I learned that the deep depression on the inner center of a human skull resembles a butterfly. Peering within, it’s as though at some time, this transitory beauty was meant to forever imprint upon us the delicate nature of a fleeting journey. Only if the skull is cremated or destroyed, does the memory of that gentle flower-seeker disappear. Within the hemisphere, the pituitary signaler of hormones, transmits chemicals to her butterfly mate, who lives innate in our throats, where the ability to speak, from time maternal, depends upon the migration of the one butterfly, straying south, and the other staying north, for without their separation, the vital energy it takes to live would cease. Such sacrificial love in nature creates brilliancy, but what’s more, it is the lack of electrical current that defines depression, as inhibitory. If this myopic view excludes further truth, it may one day be discovered that the real origin of our cranial pain, and mental suffering are related to this separation, to this lack of excitation within the neuronal center. It’s not the fact that there is a lack of stimulation, it is instead a lack of attention, a lack of response. “Soak me in serotonin, and watch me cry,” sings the butterfly. “No,” cries the other butterfly, “you are mistaken, I am that shadow, existing within the grey area, where the cloud formation never dissipates, do not think I can dissolve into elation. I journeyed once, more than a day, which in my time was forever, and I knew feeling and taste as vividly as each step one takes. Although I live in the echo from phonemes breaking, my real truth lies in the upper regions, where words form in synaptic response to thought, dark, enduring thought, which keeps my soul from dying, much like your heart beat keeps your body from flying. Through resonance and dissonance I am cocooned inside of you, always.”

The nurse sits with the patient as they discuss the power of non-verbal communication, ie; touch. “When you hold my hand,” she tells her, “I know you are there, it’s like a flower growing in my spine, I can feel it, I can sense it growing there, and though I know it will die once you let go, it helps me to feel less alone, it’s like a thousand astrocytes lighting up the dark sky inside of me.”

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Filed under Borderline, Butterfly, Conversation, creative, Death, Depression, Distance, Drowning, Identity, inspirational, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Medical, Memory, Message, Mortality, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Science, Self, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Rigor mortis

It’s funny when he sees me, he thinks I need saving, because he sees only the most tortured parts under the microscope, “sorry you hear voices, I hear them too, the voice is audible, sounds like something sinister, perhaps you might think of praying,” is what his slowly sinking gaze speaks inaudibly, and when the doctor asks, “has anyone here ever seen a cadaver?” Not one of the nursing students answers, and he, the only man with a credible soul utters, “yes,” all eyes are on him, all the freshly pricked virgin ears, point in cochlear attention. yada, yada, “I once knew a man who was a professor, who had access to a morgue,” the topic is rigor mortis, stiff corpses, as I sip my morning coffee, and take a bite out of my raisin tea biscuit, alone in the back of the classroom, because I came late, and knee boy took my seat. I mutter under soft tones as all in the class attempt to lift the heavy air with their superficial speak, and the doctor looks at me, walks closer, asks me to repeat my words, but no one is listening, or so I think, when I say, “a baby, I saw a dead baby,” -“oh what did it look like?”-” It was limp, it’s arms and legs dangled.” He walks away speechless, then the boy who dreams of blowing Adam in eden, whilst on his knees, writhing w/ a painful patella, turns my way, holds his gaze, and repeats that same sunken look of sympathy, as inside I smirk apathetically. No one dares to ask, choosing instead to stay silent, yet I hear their thoughts float through the air like disembodied voices, voices without flesh, stiff voices with rigor mortis tongues. If they’d have asked, I’d have told them, I felt nothing. I felt nothing, I saw flesh, in the places where her infancy bled through purple epidermis, and without asking, I knew why, why the paramedics kept her for over an hour in the ambulance, when she had already succumbed to  “primary flaccidity” to save a young mother from the eminent shock that she was soon to feel, as PTSD leaked through her veins, like ink from squid, a thousand miles below sea level, where no voice could ever be heard.

There once was a cross-bridge, where thirty myosin heads could be seen bobbing on the surface of the river below, instead of help, they were screaming, “ATP, ATP, glycogen depleted.” There has been a deterioration of the sarcoplasmic reticulum.

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Filed under Death, Memory, Poem, poetry, Science, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Before the Abyss

Somewhere on a mountain in India, you were learning about the particles of sand in the rocks that expanded from the boulder of your aspirations. Speak nothing of the weight of it, small unrelated sibling of brown skin. Don’t carry the weight of the world, crossing continents, shifting from what we spoke of as a caste system which broke open and slowly became something of a mineralized memory, chiseled sharp as a surgeon’s instrument.

When I was ten years old I felt God enter my bed and lift me toward the sky. I may have at one time cried over the death of birds. Never once would I imagine an unborn soul’s karma would meet with mine to rise up into the white of discarded feathers, else pull those makeshift wings over her own small body and fly.

Truth drizzles from the tongue in crowded corridors, where from behind the girl without a circle flocks towards my side in tacit approval, smiling back lost decades, where among you all I would have been unrecognizable. Her and I are the nuclei of free radicals, I laugh at the open door for rebels to pass through, gaining entrance freely. I hear your own laughter echo back to me.

We all started with a dream. Today that dream dies. Today the scope of practice is spoken of, and the post trauma of seeing small children, like smashed eggs on the sidewalk, where the yolk of what we become gets burned beneath the sun. My heart, my heart lies lateral to my body. My soul, my soul, lies proximal to the sky. Skip a beat…

listen for the atrial flutter of a butterfly, inflating beyond measure, auscultating systolic pressure.

120 over 80 mercury, retro to distal, the parietal of my hand reaches through the ventral of the darkness, separating the opposing sides of a funnel cloud in utero, tapping on a stethoscope.

The eyes open as light floods the pupils, dilating variance, ascertaining vision, a flash of recognition, the first stranger we meet,

our first lover, the keeper of our primary impressions. When acceptance or rejection tattoos the future on our small dangling feet.

The first spanking or christening, followed by the first kiss,

Before the abyss, and after the abyss.

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Filed under Butterfly, Canada, Canadian, Distance, Medical, Memory, Past, Poem, poetry, Science, Time, Trauma, travel, writing