Piece of Mind

The human brain is a wondrous contraption, at least in some people it is. It consists of a rather large number of individual pieces that go by names, some of which are almost pronounceable such as: glia, axons. neurons, photons and cosines maybe even others, which either I don’t know or are unpronounceable anyway. But my favorite brain part is called the, get this, endoplastic reticulum. Let me repeat that: endoplastic reticulum! I first heard this name just a few weeks ago in a series of lectures offered by Jon Stanton, a brilliant professor who told us a lot more about the brain, most of which I can’t remember. But this name, endoplastic reticulum, I shall remember for as long as I remain above ground (and, I hope, carry it with me wherever I happen to go in the lengthy hereafter.)

I so love that name that I have repeated it to myself, aloud, ever since, many times a day, even well into the night. They are the first words out of my mouth when I awake in the morning and the last I utter when I go to bed at night. I often shout them into an empty trash can or bath tub so that I can listen to them echo, resonate and reverberate. If I had heard them fifty or so years ago, I would have name my first child Endoplastic Reticulum French (a name that, I trust, she would have used as “E. Reticulum French” rather than the less resonant “Endoplastic R. French”.), and which could have been shortened to the endearing and inspirational, “Retick.” I can picture her quiet comfort and pride at being so named, shouldering, with spirited determination, the awesome responsibilities it would have placed on her. Had I done so, she would probably be a Supreme Court Justice, perhaps even Chief Justice (however, she turned out pretty well anyway.) Even now I have considered changing her name retroactively. After all, we named her in the first place, we certainly should have the opportunity and authority to change it now, if we so wished. I have to speak to my wife about this.

While I am greatly enamored of the name of this brain part, I have absolutely no idea what it does for its hosting organ. Of course, for that matter, I don’t know what any of the other brain’s parts do except for the part that forgets things. This part, wherever it lies, is, by great measure, the most active part of my own personal brain. It can forget everything I try to put there: names, even the names of persons and things I have known well and have known since I was young; places; things I have learned, even learned well at one time; things I have done, even those I wanted to remember; and especially those things I had so carefully studied and learned in schools. Unfortunately, the forgetting lobe of my brain does its forgetting very selectively. There are some highly embarrassing moments that I would most happily forget but, thanks to my severe and hardhearted brain, am not allowed to.

Among those pieces of my brain-works that are not functioning with the intensity that they did in years past is the part that produces impure thoughts. This was, at one time, one of the most active and productive parts of my brain but has been, more recently, producing its inspiring and educational incidents with increasing infrequency. I recall fondly these innocent and fulfilling interludes and tend to miss their opportunities for quiet reflection and contemplation.

My brain happens to have several other pieces that function either intermittently of not at all. Among these are those faulty lobes that are reputed to receive information from the eyes and ears and turn these signals into either brilliantly colored and clearly defined visual images or, in the case of the ears, distinct and recognizable sounds like pleasant melodies, familiar or unfamiliar voices, nature’s comforting or disquieting murmurs, or just plain noise. Throughout my childhood and youth, my brain handled these tasks with ease and dispatch, presenting me with crisp and clear images and sounds that I easily classify as pleasant or unpleasant, friendly or hostile or even indifferent. It seems that these brain parts have decided that the major part of their work is done and that they can retire to a condition of sloth, relaxation and indolence. I am not happy with their decision.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not really criticizing my brain. I am delighted that it functions as well as it does. In spite of its waning services, it supplies me with sufficient awareness to recognize a major portion of my surroundings. I remember how to speak, listen, chew, blink, scratch, swallow, move my body and many of its parts, tie my shoe laces, even read and write a bit. Above all, at this advanced station of my life, I am loath to insult my remaining brain and turn it against me. It might come in handy in the next several years.

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