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.