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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Ilaine who wrote (29894)	6/25/1999 12:39:00 AM
From: jpmac	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 71178

The soup might be "mush brain". Something I came to find out really exists but by a different name. Then there's too much soupy stuff and the wires start to drag in the liquid and the signals drop into the slough and fizzle out, unable to make it up to the transmittor on the other side. Then you stare blankly at someone as the thought goes poof, drowned. Or you drop your glass since your hand forgets what it was doing.

To: Ilaine who wrote (29894)	6/25/1999 12:49:00 AM
From: Jacques Chitte	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 71178

>Isn't the "soup" what's in the blood and the lymph? Maybe, I'll concede for the sake of the argument(see, this is really left-brained) that the neurotransmitters are "soup."< Good, cuz I'm interpreting the "soup" metaphor in terms of interneural chemical signals. The two metaphors relate to structure and function - both of which are different facets of the working device (the CNS). I chose neuroanatomy for the sake of terseness - certainly neurophysiology plays into it. But I'm implying the assumption that the soup function is built into the wiring - because it isn't ordinary binary wiring but also contains the production-and-regulation machinery for the chemical end. And the chemicals exert local, regional or global colorations imposed on the analog clicketyclack of the neurons firing. >Unless you mean, maybe, that "it" isn't "me" - that "me" is subject to "it" but "it" can change and "I" am always me.< What's on second!! I'm not sure I understood this last, but I'll toss caution to the winds and hazard a response. "It" (meat in structure and function) rules and encompasses "me" (mind and/or spirit). (Personal subjective opinion.) So I don't hold that I am always me - change It (like that train dude who took an iron bar through the prefrontal cortex and was transformed into ... someone else) and I change. Perhaps discontinuously. The grim lesson of depression and other affective disorders is that the mind (and thus to my carnocentric way of thinking, the soul) is ever hostage to the meat. I am my meat. The only way for me to transcend my meat is to persuade nonself meat to think my thoughts. With a well-written letter or a startlingly risqué post or a friendship gained. Or wife and children who are secure in my love, even if I'm in a jar on the mantel. Sooo ... if we weren't arguing and you weren't in a conceding disposition <grin> what would you say about soup?