I sent this e-mail to the DA list-serve (like a fool) and now I am sending
it to the correct list-serve.
Consequently, some of you will be receiving it twice. For that error, I
sincerely apologize
WANDERINGS THROUGH THE MINDVERSE
*Babies Who Run with the Wolves*
*I'd love to see the neurons.*
That was my principal thought when observing that thermodynamics-defying
perpetual dynamo Miranda Beatrice Brunhilde racing frantically around in
circles, her face almost incandescent with glee. She was moving in
response to the sound and fury of her older brother's phone, which was
blaring a type of music that was one part percussion, three parts nerve
damage. (Quite a shattering jolt for us sensitive sorts raised on the
dulcet melodies of Black Sabbath.) During those moments, her Universe
wasn't 10 million galactic superclusters or even our dynamic world. It was
music. Threshold-quaking tones enveloping her like ceaseless tectonic
activity. She was awakening to her humanity: the irrepressible sense of
unbridled aliveness one experiences with the fusion of music and motion:
Brazilian samba, Spanish flamenco, Irish step dancing and the myriad other
manifestations of joy made kinetic. That is not to suggest she was at all
coordinated. Her 18-month old body still hasn't come to terms with gravity
and she stumbled a dozen times. Of course, such was her eagerness to
return to that state of Shamanic ecstasy that she quickly picked herself up
with nary a sniffle or whine. The muses were frolicking with her and
there was no time for grievance or injury.
Of course her parents -tyrants both- had to clamp a stopper on the
festivities. After all, nearly an hour had elapsed. Our craniums were
starting to splinter and the throng of disgruntled neighbors congregating
outside looked a bit too menacing. So, her troglodyte father, oblivious
to the smoke wisps arising from the scorched ellipse she had forged in the
carpet, took the phone. "Ok, sweetheart. Time to stop. Let's eat!" I
would love to tell you that she responded with admirable aplomb and said,
"Why, father, I understand. Your intervention, though inconvenient, was
appropriate to the occasion." You see, we all want to write about our
children in such a way as to reflect agreeably on ourselves. That's why
holiday cards often include phrases such as "and after school the other
day, little Mary visited Buckingham Palace and with a laying on of hands,
cured all the Royals of their gout and bad press." Well, Miranda didn't
accept the interruption philosophically. Having been drawn back to Earth
with a sharp jerk, she flung herself to the ground in a fit. (Her
banshee-like shriek finished off our craniums.) Fortunately, she was
quickly mollified by a peace offering of warm food. One pleasing
sensation replaced another.
She then ate with the same reckless abandon, indifferent to the highly
refined rules of dinner etiquette that we will eventually impose on her.
For now, she remains a disquieting reminder of our foraging, but
refreshingly unpretentious, forebearers. (Yes, I'm referring to the
Victorian era.) Yet, to her, food is also not just nourishment, but an
occasion for deeper scrutiny. She is as apt to fix her nibbles in a hard
stare as she is to place them in her mouth. Her forming mindverse,
actuated by an unslakable thirst for knowledge, ignores nothing unhidden.
After all, the world in which she has inexplicably found herself has proven
as strange as it is wondrous. It must all be examined and, if necessary,
tested. For instance, she's learned that oat soap's pleasing fragrance
belies its taste, that lit incense sticks have harsh personalities, and
that Earth is populated by billions of fawning admirers. (Unless she
grows up to become a planetarium director, the last realization will likely
be modified.)
If we could observe the neurons, we'd witness a frenzy of ceaseless
activity: processing sights, sounds and sensations into what will
presumably form a cohesive whole: the disturbingly enigmatic eventually
transmuting into the comfortably familiar. Not least among her cerebral
exertions is the development of language. Now, her constant chatter is
largely a discordant mix of imitative sounds occasionally punctuated by
syllables reminiscent of words. Being in a home crowded by other human
beings who won't give her a moment's peace ensures that her beleaguered
brain will be constantly subjected to a barrage of words. On the other
hand, being in the presence of so many attentive valets could well impede
the process of language development for all she has to do to receive
something is point at it and grunt, be it water, bread, or terrifyingly
loud I-phones. If the mere act of uttering guttural noises results in her
obtaining any desired object, the motivation to become verbal is
diminished. (Her teenage brother illustrates this principle perfectly.)
Nevertheless, the language will ultimately take form because as she
matures, her needs, desires and feelings will become complex enough to
necessitate articulation.
Of course, that development, like all else, is now predicated on being a
copy-cat. She is new to this planet -at least in this form- and, like a
perplexed tourist, has to learn its ways through observation and
imitation. She sees her father sitting on the floor with a book on his
lap, she finds her own and sits next to him.
"You're holding that book upside down, you know."
"Mind your own beeswax, Miranda."
She studies behavior and strives to replicate it, so life has become an
interminable sequence of IKEA instructions. She is learning constantly
and processing the deluge of new information ceaselessly. Miranda is
understanding more words, colors, shapes, and, exasperatingly, developing
the ability to find hidden objects and defy parental commands. That will
all take some time to work out.
For now, hers is an existence largely free of constraint for the imposed
sense of shame, fear of scorn, anxious awareness of popular opinion, and
often ambiguous social mores have yet to dampen the natural exuberance
engendered merely by being fully and unapologetically alive. She'll soon
learn all about these aspects of citizenry and perhaps the only remaining
remnant of that exuberance will be the deep seeded longing for it.
For now, however, she'll run. There will be a time later on for maturity
and the adoption of tribal custom and acquiescence to social pressures.
Eventually, along a remote point on the space-time continuum, she'll
become the world weary octogenarian who will greet the 22nd century's
arrival with either cheerful optimism or contemptuous indifference,
depending on the unfathomably intricate series of life paths she follows.
The other night, that elderly woman was resting comfortably against her
father's shoulder while he wandered outside to admire the sky. "There's
Orion," he tells her, "just as he looked to the Stonehenge architects."
She paid scant attention to her Dad, evidence of her developing good
sense. After all, it was late, her brain was preparing for another all
night session of subconscious processing, and the need for sleep had made
her oblivious to the sounds and trembles of the unquiet Dad. She did,
however, soon notice the moon. The sight of it emerging from clouds caused
her to quickly raise her head off Dad's shoulder, like a gazelle suddenly
perturbed out of its repose by nearby rustling. Miranda's wide eye
fascination soon changed to puzzlement when she observed a small cloud
passing in front of the moon, making it seem as though it was flying across
the sky. She looked at me for a moment, as though I knew what was
happening, and then decided to rest again and close her eyes. As I
brought her inside, I thought * I'd love to see the neurons.*
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