We Are Not Brains In Jars

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Janet Fitch’s chapter in Writers Workshop in a Book titled Coming to Your Senses resonates with me. She states, “More and more of us are becoming that boy, typing and tapping, viewing the world through screen and windshields, and never noticing what we might be missing.” We are increasingly an indoor society – a virtual society. We see, hear, feel, and experience what others have created for us on TV, in magazines, in games, in books. She uses an example of a Star Trek episode where brains in jars run a world. I remember that episode. I can see her point.

I work at a large university. We post signs to help students find where they need to go for services or information. They don’t read them. They say they don’t notice the large signs with red lettering. I have a theory on this. They have “pop up blindness” from too many years on the Internet. They live in a world of DVRs where they can skip commercials. They don’t take the time to read or pay attention to what’s in front of them. They text people sitting next to them. They talk on the phone or text people when they are physically with other people. They are blind to the non-virtual world.

Fitch keeps sensory notebooks. I believe in this. I’m fortunate that there is an arboretum at the university where I work. At least once a week, I walk to the arboretum and just experience things. I write them in little notebooks and I take pictures and videos. I need to do this because sitting in my office all day makes me numb. It’s like when I had hand surgery a few years ago and they didn’t put me under, they used a tourniquet. They squeezed off sensation. They isolated my arm from my brain. I didn’t feel them cutting into me. I felt a far away sensation of muted touch, but no pain. Technology is a tourniquet. It isolates our brains from life. As Fitch states, it’s too easy to become a brain in a jar.

I put inspirational quotes on the wall behind my writing desk. I added one today: “We are not brains in jars.” The picture pasted above it is a little gory, but hopefully it will help me remember to get up and go outside once in a while. Hopefully, that will give me real sensory information to share through my writing so I won't be writing as a brain in a jar.
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Growl Swoosh Onomatopoeia

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Onomatopoeia is using words that sound like the noise they represent. Here is an exercise in using onomatopoeia.

His snores rattle pictures on walls. Great bellowing growls on inhale. Swooshing steam escapes on exhale. Mesmerizing in rhythm -- growl, swoosh, growl, swoosh -- the raucous rocking boat of sleep, vibrating twilight hours into morning.

Growl, swoosh, growl, swoosh, SNOP!

A break in beat.

The house holds its breath.

The hall clock pauses.

All matter in the universe
outside these walls hangs
in limbo,
motionless,
without purpose.

Snop, snop, snop… growl, swoosh…
time begins again and the house exhales.

This is the music of my childhood, the assurance that my father is there. In his absence, there is only the metallic ticking of the clock to fill the night. Snapping the seconds away – snap, tick, snap, tick. Pinging echoes careening like radar against every sharp corner of the house, amplifying the void. Snap, tick mocks his absence and invites the night to darken. Growl, swoosh spins the world and keeps the demons away.
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Planter Peanuts

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This piece came to me when I was watering my planters on my side yard patio today. I thought it, but didn't have confidence that it would make sense to anyone but me. I didn't have the confidence that it was good enough to see the light of day on paper. I don't write flowery enough. I write too flowery. This is too mushy. This is too trite. This has no meaning. Sophmoric. Embarassing. Not worthy.

Then a blue jay landed a few feet from me. He was completely unafraid of the watering wand I held or the cat lounging on the nearby patio chair. The jay perched for a long time on the edge of one of my planters and just looked at me, his head turning quizzically from side to side. I've found a lot of unshelled peanuts in that planter. I immediately went in and wrote the piece down.

Planter Peanuts

I find fully shelled peanuts in the planters of my garden,
Spilling out with the soil when I replant,
Floating over rims when I overwater pots daydreaming,
Pushing into view aided by ambitious sprouts reaching toward nourishing sunlight.

Hidden gifts left to me by clever but forgetful blue jays and crows,
Precious cargo prized from generous neighborhood bird lovers,
Spirited away and stashed in hidey holes for leaner times,
Times when sustenance is not plentiful.

I find fully shelled peanuts in my life,
Gifts left to me by caring friends, teachers, coworkers, strangers,
Precious cargo of unearned smiles, offhanded remarks, and kind gestures,
Spirited away and stashed in hidey holes for leaner times,
Times when sustenance is not plentiful.

These gifts materialize when called but are sometimes unbidden,
Spilling forth when I replant my intentions and resolve,
Floating to consciousness when I daydream,
Pushing into view when ideas or revelations spring into thought.

I find fully shelled peanuts in my garden,
Sometimes it is just before the dawn,
And they seem to push the darkness away,
Popping into the growing light when I least expect it,
My wish is that you find fully shelled peanuts, too.
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