NEUROLOGICAL WINTER: 1. When I Was Bread

(joined, like most things, in progress)...subscribing to the everybody's an individual idea, no total duplication, no two alike --I mean that's comforting, appealing, isolating somewhat, too, but really boosts the innovative aspect of being, even if those differences are small: on some scale AN ORIGINAL so this is in some part an(other) instance of paving the well-paved way to privilege and entitlement, and simultaneously this is a nod to a lack of exact duplications as goofs in attempts at exactitude; this time an account of:

When I was bread, I wasn't bread in the way in which anyone or anything else has been bread.

Definitely not Jesus bread, for instance, though I've had some of that; had I not had any,
had having some not been so powerful, I might have been saved from having to start with that staple of my diet, the daily that was served once a month, every first Sunday, and I might not have gotten to, as directly years later, interest in Salvador Dali's CORPUS HYPERCUBUS (Jesus on a hypercube --not that I could get a hypercracker into my mouth except in my imagination as I'm doing now, experiencing the yum of that).

I even came by the Jesus bread I had the right way (as taught to me by a half-dozen pastors including the one who held me in watch-care in a primitive pentecostal store-front while I was two-years in New York, fire
somewhere in the hand-painted sign), the bread always separate from the blood, not a chance for a good sop

but Sevress, who is God knows where right now, worried about being caught
halfway, Jesus bread in his stomach, Jesus blood about to stain his lips
(and when it did, he had me snap his picture
but I was picturing, because his lips invited this,
two potato halves stained purple for the starchy kiss-stamping I'd be doing all over necks
and arms to make it look like epidemics and bruises to shut down the school.
I am not alone in this; Scottish architects are condemning potato stamp houses
for their role in the death of imagination).

While Sevress was still half-baked, caught with Jesus bread in his stomach,
Jesus blood about to stain his lips, lightning (like a super-sized flaming Cheeto) would strike and split him down the middle, both heaven-bound and hell-bent
(light as a feather rising and cooked like a goose, an H2: heaven and hell or one-half 4H)

so Sevress made Jesus cocktails to stay out of that position
(from which he'd have to campaign for Rumpelstiltskin who finished waist-to-toe
as deep in the dirt as a potato
and head-to-gut as above ground as a combination bird bath and feeder).
Sevress mushed and pulped the bread, the Jesus crackers that is, in the blender
with the blood, sometimes topped it off with whipped cream, a cloud of Holy Ghost,
wheatgerm for a sprinkling of sawdust from the cross.

Magnified: a mess of splinters to spike the throat.

a secondary beard of neck stakes

kebab skewer hub

(and so forth till arriving at the packaging that sticks)

He sold way more Second Coming Juice than anybody else
sold Kool-Aid, even when Kool-Aid was sweeter (easily sweeter than hard to swallow
drink-once-Jim-Jones-in-the-name-of-oh-my-God drink, even when lemon and lime slices swirled around in it
like thin cross sections of salamander and chameleon heads
(it did look good, so good, I can't resist linking it
to stunted and aborted micro-galaxies);
maybe Kool-Aid was sweeter for not being crossed
(as it was in the mix with drink-once-Jim-Jones-in-the-name-of-oh-my-God drink).
Kool-Aid Man's House
was another kind of sanctuary altogether. You could wear a 50-hula hoop stack
of hula hoops there and be okay for looking like a psychedelic Michelin Man freak.
You could be praised for that. A sense of entitlement could start to take shape for that.

Sevress didn't have to see it to drink it or make it.

The Sevress Second Coming Jesus Juice was just half the story, thirst to be quenched
by the son of God; for the other thirst, the son of man needed a shot of Flaming Jesus
which had, as men need to have both alibis and aliases from time to time,
several aka's that covered the base bases, earth and below.

Jesus was all over wine, covered the grape fully; that was one of the first things you learned on your way to being religious.
Wine was the big part of a miracle. The state store was all spirits.

You can get alcohol by breaking down sugars.
You can call "alcohol" alcohol by using Arabic.

When I was bread I was part of other histories; I was connected to them when I was bread. I was a slice of them when I was bread.

After it soaked in Kool-Aid, I sucked a slice of Chameleon Head citrus dry.

I wouldn't have sucked it if the slice had soaked in methanol.
Methanol is wood alcohol and is known to be easy.
Known to inhabit volcanic gases, is nearby in organic decay; methanol happens
in the sunken cemetery chambers. Methanol is in space, almost 300 billion miles
of a great gas lake spitting out microwave radiation
--as if it learned its ropes from a cloud of Holy Ghost.

Sevress didn't have to see it to drink it or make it.
Sevress didn't see much of anything at all; methanol in his system converted
into formaldehyde for which the optic nerve is a toy.

For formaldehyde, the optic nerve is a gift, is a blessing
as understood from my awareness, since formaldehyde has none, has structure
that excludes it; I'm even aware that I was bread.

As aware as I am now, taken on faith in Jarret Schecter's Journey in Sight,
that a child goes blind every minute, timed to, slowed by half, the slow blink
of the caution light, where Seventh bisects Miller, after midnight. Wink, wink
not a minuet or a minute goes by when there's not a reason to salute Helen Keller,
Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Jose Feliciano, Dianne Schuur, the Five Blind Boys, the three blind mice, three children beautifully blinded by a holy light show at Fatima perhaps

--a show maybe based on coronal mass ejection not meant for the naked eye except to fry--

and Roy Orbison (not because he was blind, because he wasn't, but for achievement
itself, for what went on behind those prescription glasses the likes of which
Gabrielle White is entitled to wear,
in the news smiling, Fox news logo overlaying beige paper slices blistered with braille,
that her fingers crawled,
on her lap a year after shadows of young men definitely incomplete, one-dimension less than humanity,

doused her with acid
[that took advantage of its corrosive properties, its holdings]

before Gabrielle could get through a door that should've opened up in the atmosphere, just one facet of each link in a chain of prisms; her salvation rainbow should have happened
for someone like her, trying so hard to go somewhere else, somehow not arriving
in bitterness, one of trauma's primary tributaries; they are fraternal, not identical twin cities); Laura Ingalls Wilder's blind sister, another Mary, including Typhoid Mary, Mary Magdalene, the Virgin Mary, the Mary Jane Girls, Mary Mary: the gospel duo, and quite contrary, Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack, cousin of Jimmy Mack Mack the Knife.

Brings to my sliced bread mind part of, best part of sliced bread, a slice of Lorca bread cut with a quarrel of Albacete knives, magnificent
with stranger blood, flashing like fishes
on the gully slope
(as translated by Robert Bly)

Albacete: capital of the province of Alabacete; Albacete: a city known for scissors, daggars, knives
(to face the most adverse situations, as it says if you scroll down this page of nieto.

And when I was bread, I wasn't bread the way Lenore was bread in Closet Cases #1632, shown here:

And when I was bread, not only was I not bread in the way that anyone or anything else has been bread, no one knew that I was bread
while I was bread, so I definitely didn't get considered for the Here Is Your Life: Loaf of Bread Sesame Street honor shown here:

When I was challah bread,
this was my hand:

When I was challah bread,
I was challah bread because
of this stove:

~feast of the heat of an Empire~

When I was bread, I experienced ovens
more intimately than just reaching to put something in or take something out.
Hansel and Gretel's witch lived in a gingerbread house larger than but related to --it was an ancestor-- of the gingerbread house
I was allowed to make every year for the Shipp-directed junior church choir
(I was indeed a Shipper)
until word got out about the witch connection, and the house was condemned
for confirmed evil at the hands of a Tituba-type girl who could make witchcake, devil's food cake and angel food cake
with equal panache (God help her), who said predicate
and everything else, with generic white-girl / white-bread enunciation, like an incantation.

Here are some slices of a video loaf of the architecture of simmer
because something simmered for years before it popped out of incubation and my thighs
became two (necessarily, being twins) twin locked hope chests
numb to every effort to open them, all spells reworked to the hope chests' femur-rodded advantage, reinforcement of their purpose (extended, it's said, here & elsewhere to old New Guinea), vow to not repeat identically
what happened on Pandora's watch, her box almost emptied (her possessions and her identity were in the box and jars, too,
all her ideas rooted in her brain even when disease, when circumstance graced her with the likeness of the mind of a jellyfish, a basic yet, I understand, atypical --outside of the jelly community-- Cnidarian nervous system)
whereas these hope chests were full, solid empires; I could not move them:

This is a good place to share My Galactic Octopus:

This is a continuing brain thing, art and the brain, plus every now and then an attack of the nervous system, at least an adequate triumvirate. This is a continuing brain thing: art and the brain again. This is, among other things, testimony to Arts & Minds.

Ciao (dialect alteration of schiavo, [I am your] slave)
(from the dashboard dictionary).

Comments

[forkergirl]

Thank you physician; your experience is welcome here. In fact, most of us rely on experience to determine what we know and how we know it. Please leave more comments anytime you'd like to --all experience is welcome.

[Anthonia]

I am a physician and medical writer with 15 years of experience. I was in clinical practice as a neurologist for 10 years before becoming a medical

[Ross Finesmith MD]

Rattling telling and the way you presented your collection attracts visitors to scan more exemplifying blogs from your website.

[forkergirl]

I am writing more at a time when writing more did not seem likely. Thank you very much for this encouragement! It means so much to me!

[forkergirl]

Yes; the absolute trust! That's it exactly!

[forkergirl]

I am writing more --as much as I can for as long as I can. Thanks for your interest (--I hope that I get keep [some] of your interest for as long as I can. Thanks again.

[forkergirl]

I'm glad that you're still here!

[Thylias Moss]

Happy new year to all! I'm glad to still be here!

[Realestate]

Happy New Year! The author write more I liked it.

[school_dubl]

Happy New Year! The author write more I liked it.

[Jordans Sneakers]

I really like your blog's style, and hungry to withstand friends is that: the strict test! So we can carry the absolute trust.

[Leah MW]

I am imagining what comes before and after Heat Dozens.

Before:
Damage is a kind of degeneration
A communication breakdown
In the form of demyelinization
So that you can see,
There are elements of damage here:
Elements plural -- lesion sites plural.
Cracks along the axonal road
Make traversing uneasy.
It is a long road and the message gets contorted, confused,
Lost along the way.

And After:
The oven door opens and you say
Yes, the meaning of heat is the sensation of thought
Where electric impulses make action potentials
Make movements,
Make ideas --
Make you think about how things and thoughts and actions
Are manifested in different forms, structures,
In the positive and negative.
This is how something going into the oven comes out as something else.

[stephgirl64]

I love your poems. They are breathtaking and open to interpretation. For my writing class, I was to create a poem of my own in reaction to the beginning and ending of two of your video poems. Here it is:

Intenseness: Why I’m never Here
By
Stephanie Kyle Migdail

Detached; apart falling from the
sky, high above, discomfort in my veins.
Colors, pictures, blend inside the petri
dish. The light of the muscle blended body
in undead form. Eyes, mouth, heart, skull,
locusts in the brain, unreal negatives panting,
sweating. This is the body’s time, this is the
only appliance with which I batter my right
eye. Only the stove, the fiery fridge,
hurting more than my arm could pull
the trigger. Only more than the unconscious
floorboard below could hold my aching body
up before
it falls.
This is deterioration, this is the heart beginning
to fry. Curling in a balanced wave of the
unreal. Skin, smooth, untouched, mine, never
real. Surviving the failing network of hand up
shoulder down, leg spurt, head twitch. Like a raining
temperature, like the open casket of the four-limbed
goddess never dead, never living, never breathing, never
open to understanding. Waiting for understanding. Damn
you.
Stretch the puncture though my mind
through the neurons firing, ever firing. Synapse, synapse in
my mouth, makes the words I didn’t mean to say echo
through my tongue, through my pelvis reverberate beneath
the sticky cells of my blood. Until I am no longer
human, but machine. Wave of puddle, pools of
words, screaming, aching from a silent throat.
A person hidden in a body never gets to
show the world. This is the price of belonging.
This is the galaxy
of the beginning
of the end
of me.

[Melissa Axell]

I must have forgot! The galactic octopus I really found interesting how you took it and compared it to your neurological damage..burlap sack? did it really feel like that? The way you a analyze what is happening in your brain is fascinating.

[Melissa Axell]

I have already posted a comment pertaining to your page, but I think my internet lost service right as I posted and I lost the comment entirely. This is rather upsetting because I really hope I remember touching upon what I said to you. Okay, I'll do my best to recapture what I said. So.. I have been spending a lot of time sifting in and out of your pages of forgergirl tines. I have visited the bifurcation station, forkergirl 101, neurological winter blog, and D.A.D.A. (which was very interesting!!where do you get these ideas??) I have found myself getting lost in all of your webpages trying to take as much in as I can. I haven't been able to check everything out because there is sooo much!!! you weren't kidding about how long this must have taken you. How long did this actually take you? I have been trying to spread the love and share your typepad webpage with my close friends that I know will appreciate experiencing something totally new to them like poams, limited fork poetics, and just your style and outlook of everything. The idea of mapping, and looking at the world as a set of interactions that unfold into infinity. I want to share what I have learned with them, and believe me they have no idea even where to start!! haha. I am curious as to why you chose to document your neurological winter you are experiencing? I love how you chose to turn it into an art that you have shown ownership over. How up to date are these blogs with your life at the moment? What do you think the neurological winter has done to you in terms of limited fork, art, life, etc.? I have so many questions, and not enough time to get them answered. Thank you for all you do, and I love looking at your "Forkergirl favorite videos" the face one is really interesting!!

[Melissa]

Wow... i don't even know where to begin. This blog and web page is quite a map of everything, a good map into your mind and thoughts of where you have travelled to. I have spent many days going through the many sites of the Forkergirl Tines. I have visited the bifucation station, D.A.D.A.(which is very crazy to me, but quite interesting!), and forkergirl 101. Lets just say I have been clicking on as many different things I can find and follow, and believe me there is more than enough to do here. I haven't seen even nearly all of it yet, and here I am wondering how in the world did you do all this, and how long did it take you? ALready I have sent your webpage(the typepad one), to a few of my friends so they could check it out and I can spread the love of limited fork poetics and what I have gained from your class and how you see the world. They have no idea where to start! I laughed because thats what I thought before I began this class, and I told them, just start clicking on anything whatever interests you, and you will surely go on a journey through dimensions you have never imagined. Once again, I am seeing more and more how you feel and think about this neurological winter you are experiencing. I think it is great how you take something that has happened to your brain and dissected it so deeply and devoted so much time to try to understand and research what is taking place in your brain. You have made it art, and I loved the Galactic octopus poam you posted near the end, are you scared to feel this burlap sack? What did you do when you felt like this, did you instantly feel the need to make it into poetry? I am intrigued, and like a chip bag, I have had one, and I can't stop eating them...like an addiction, I Want more!!

[Forker Girl]

Thank you very much for the comment.

No physical pan --the oven itself was a kind of pan; for the bread, there was expansion to fill that space. The bread and the pan were one, I'd have ti say, now that you've gotten me to think about that. Thanks for the nudge --I plan to think about the pan even more.

There were also multiple ovens that these loaves simultaneously inflated toward filling. By becoming bread, by unbaked bread entering an oven, a normal bread cycle was enacted. The rising of the bread, expansion --that is expected for bread.

There's also consideration of what was happening inside the loaves --the thighs-- to allow for the expansion, to explain it; the thighs were forms of pans for something, functioned as forms of ovens for something. And the mind had to expand in order to accommodate these extensions; the loaf of mind in the brain expanded.

Subsequent chapters will explore more of the event. Many levels of containment.

Again, thank you very much for the comment. I'm glad that you liked "Heat Dozens." It is a more realized structure that what you've already seen. The piece starts with "The Architecture of Simmer" and continues. More of where it goes will be shared.

[Michael]

Heat Dozens is amazing. While in the oven you mention, as bread, were you in a pan of some sort? If you were, was that another level of containment you were aware of at the time?