Jackson Browne Is The Playing In The Author's Deaf Ears
Trout's Tale Is Concerned With How Ludicrous It Is That Man Is A Slave To One Of the Most Useless Conceits In The Known Universe.
Chapter 8
A dismal song by Jackson Browne seeps from the Palace walls. The author might mention the ironic fitness of the selection were he not asleep, face down, rigid, his head wedged between his forearms.
Open notebooks, loose sheets of scribbled-on paper, and unwound spools of tape litter the room. On the desk is one yellow leaf cluttered with doodlings and words, the first decipherable phrase of which reads: “The human brain weighs about three pounds, not significantly greater than the piss and shit the average human excretes in a single day.”
***
To listen to him now, you would never guess the bathroom is splattered with vomit and blood, his shorts are soiled and wet, and he very nearly drowned in a sea of himself not twenty minutes past, his breathing is so regular.
The author has wrestled with his brain this evening, not a wise activity in which to engage, considering that the body wearies quickly even on idle, while the brain never sleeps. From cradle to grave, each human carries around its own parasite, a small grayish-pink yogurt-like mass that has no knowledge of nor need for relaxation. Some have called this arrangement a blessing. Who do they think they’re kidding?
In addition to the more esoteric duties of providing the body with its five senses — not to mention the ability to think and/or imagine — the brain keeps the body breathing. It keeps itself fed, a monumental task in itself. Although the brain weighs a mere three pounds — less than 2% of the average humanoid’s weight according to preglacial authorities — it commands the constant attention of 20% of the body’s blood supply just to keep itself aching along in a skull.
Some say that the brain’s sole function is self-perpetuation, to put it bluntly, and the reason man is a social animal is the brain feels safer from attack when its host is wondering what to wear and what not to say among other infected victims.
Several experts argue the brain’s method of maintaining the body is so mindless, inept, and depressing one might as well study why birds line their nests with aluminum tab tops or groundhogs bite through underground cables as study the human brain.
All that makes man unique — all that distinguishes him from rocks and trees and various feathered, finned, and fuzzy creatures — may be harboring a brain that feels every bit as alien in its environment as he does in the world he stumbles through when that brain wakes him and is kind enough to allow his mind to pass some directions to his muscles. Man is at the mercy of his brain just as completely as Io was of Zeus.
How does one battle what keeps one alive and survive? One doesn’t. The cliche, “fighting a losing battle,” surely comes from this realization. If blood is cut off from the brain for two minutes, permanent damage occurs. Realizing this, guerrilla forces in the endless war between the brain and its body have supported concentrated attacks on the blood supply with alcohol, barbiturates, opiates, and dexedrine.
There are over 100 billion separate cells in the human brain, and nearly 400 thousand of these are sloughed off as useless every twenty-four hours. More than 90 billion of these cells do nothing at all except supply a housing for 10 billion neurons. Each connects to 60 thousand other neurons. Thus, the war against the brain is not unlike the trials of Hercules or the journey of Odysseus, reaffirming the strength of an individual against the mindless hordes, the assertion of will despite overwhelming odds. The rebels fight on, hoping against hope to make the brain do their bidding — to give them eternal life or get out.
This is the parasitic view of the human condition. It should not be confused with the paradisiacal view which attributes to God all those banes and boons science now defines as functions of the human brain. Its adherents believe they will be rewarded with a painfree existence in Disneyland for eternity, if they simply play by God’s inexplicable rules during their ghastly lives on Earth. Most of the paradisiacals have had their beliefs put to the test, considering the finality of the current ice age, but what of the parasitics?
Surely they recognize their slavery to blind obsession. For the brain is their master — of disguises, of deceit, of revenge. Damage to the brain soon manifests itself in the body — a nervous tic on the face, sweaty palms, the inability to find one’s keys, the loss of sight, hearing, sensitivity, speech.
A stoppage of blood for little more than two minutes results in the death of the brain, which results in the death of the body.
How the brain functions, where it stores its most secret and volatile information, when decisions are made to classify information, why the brain refuses to sleep, and what the relationship between host and brain imply about man’s relationship to the cosmos have concerned philosophers and theologians through untold ice ages.
No doubt the author has some thoughts of his own, but these are lost now, even as he draws himself up from the mattress, one hand reaching down to scratch his balls. It was the ever-vigilant brain which set in motion those sleeping muscles to fulfill that unconscious need. The whole mass sinks with an audible gurgle and settles back into what is without question a most uncomfortable position.
Why he warred with his brain this evening, how long he lay helpless in his chambers, what brought about his illness, where his mind has wandered and when it will return — these doubtless all concern the reader, who must for now content himself with the facts which can be readily observed. Neither hasten to condemn nor pity the sleeper in his disarray. He may not awaken for quite some time. Even should his eyes open this moment, he would have little to say beyond: “Gimme a break. I need some fucking coffee.”
So please retire from these chambers. Leave the author to cope with his irresponsibilities and trust he will soon rejoin his audience in a more communicable disposition.
Some may wish to tarry at the author’s VDT where the Aldo Ray formula glows as it first appeared in a preglacial humor magazine, but linger only a moment. Listen to the words of Jackson Browne if you care to, even as the slowest reader pulls the door closed:
“It’s like a song I can hear Playing right in my ear I can’t sing I can’t help listening.”
Ironic, isn’t it? As best anyone can tell, the author is truly dead to the world.
Epilog In Media Res
It occurs to me that some straggler might want to read all of Trout’s Tale in its God-given order, assuming I live long enough to publish all of it. I guess I could start another stack and publish it in order there, but where’s the fun in that?
Instead, what I’ve currently decided to do is add this epilog as an index to previous posts in the order in which they were not written, but in the most recent order they have appeared in the Hall of Records. Links will become active as new URLs are generated.
Pataphysics is the science of imaginary solutions.
Trout’s Tale thus far…
Frontal Matter And Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33