The Sound of Thoughts

I decided to start from first principle and thought about thoughts today. Now, if thoughts are initially non-existent, before the thinker starts to think and then, suddenly they crowd the brain in activity, it means they can be generated and they can be turned off.

If thoughts are generated, it means they require specific instructions to exist, particular conduits to pass through et cetera. Which means, blocking those conduits can limit thoughts, same as designing new conduits can change the flow of thoughts.

If thoughts elicit a response, in electrical activity which has previously been detected by scientists, but which we can reason by the consideration of how they are generated: by signals of neurons and snapping synapses, then they can be measured as any electrical activity.

If it can be measured, it can be read and interpreted.

Thoughts are generated by the thinker and understood by the thinker, intimating a particular method of generation, conduction and interpretation. If methods exist internally, they can be replicated externally. Artificial methods of interpreting thoughts can be designed.

Now, is it possible to read minds? Is it possible to hear the sound of thoughts?

We begin with generation and conduction. Structural design of a typical brain; generator, conductor and interpreter of thoughts, is uniform in any regard. However, some brains record a higher level of thought generation and interpretation than others, indicating a higher level of conduction. Meaning that conversely, some brains exist with structural elements which are unused, pathways available for conduction but due to limited generation, cannot be utilised to proper interpretation too.

Those brains should be able to serve as conduits for external electrical activity. Should be able to read other minds.

Patching the measured signals of an existing, normally functioning brain activity into another brain, limited in activity should allow conduction and eventual interpretation by the less utilised brain. Should. Since the structures exist.

This can also be actualised by taking a full functioning brain of an individual in a complete drug induced dreamless sleep. The limited brain activity of a full functioning brain, should allow for conduction and interpretation of external activity.

It is possible to hear the sound of thoughts.

Disclaimer

  • I don’t have a jar of harvested brains in my
  • This is completely theoretical.

God bless Nigeria.

Simeon

Watching the light leave their eyes never did it for Simeon. It wasn’t the dying that he enjoyed. It wasn’t the dying that kept him up at night, tossing and turning, unable to sleep until he went out and killed. It wasn’t the dying. It was the death.

To slice a knife across a neck, to feel the sharp blade slide across furrows and furrows of skin, biting in and then deeper, while the blood spurted out. To hold the person as they struggled, bound and helpless against his iron strength, to feel the fierceness of the struggle intensify and then wane into stuttering tremors. Those were minor pleasure, tidbits and freebies, enough to please a lesser man, but pale when compared with his actual desire. The bare foreplay, the teasing at the proper finale. It didn’t compare, not to the death.

The finality of it all, fascinated Simeon. To end a life. The knowledge that only a few minutes ago, this heart was beating, pulsing life through a body that leapt and laughed and loved and had a family. To end all that. It was the power of God. To hold a heart, bloody and lifeless, stuck through with tiny splinters of bone from a crushed rib. To feel it still warm as it grew cold, and to know that only a few minutes ago, it had given life. It made him flush hot and cold all over.

The little girl on the side of the dark street, her pink pinafore swaying in the late evening breeze as she waited for him before she crossed the road, one hand clutching a basin of pineapple cuts wrapped in transparent nylon.

“Go on,” he motioned with his hand. Accompanying the action with two short blasts from his car horn.

The girl smiled gratefully, stepping onto the empty street.

Simeon took his foot off the brake and stepped down on the throttle.

The car hit the small body with a dull thud, pushing it forward and under the grille of the Mercedes. The basin of pineapple cuts banged against the bonnet, rolling off and out of the way, spilling out in careless array. 16 inch wheels, treads as wide as 225mm, rolled over the stunned body, crushing its tiny ribs, splintering it to pieces that exploded into the thoracic cavity, and killing the girl instantly. Simeon slammed on the brakes again. Switching the gear into reverse, he turned the steering wheel, rolling again over the dead body, crushing pelvis and arm. It flipped and flopped all over the road, a dusty brown thing that used to be pink.

The sun went behind the row of houses in the distance, the last light reflecting briefly off plastic wrapped pineapple cuts, strewn across the road.

Similar to this: Ruki’s Desire

The act of killing the body lying across the still empty road in front of his car had no effect on him. Nothing. His heart did not suddenly lift, his breath did not catch. Stepping out of the car, his palms sweaty, his breath only now beginning to come quickly, he walked to the mangled body, tiny trickles of blood already beginning to stream out all the orifices and bruises on the splotchy skin.

He stood over it. Kicked at her. It didn’t move. It felt like soft stone. She was dead. Gloriously and completely dead. Hot steam hit his eyes, filling them instantly with tears. A short moan escaped his lips. A wet patch spread on his trousers.

It wasn’t the dying that did it for him. It wasn’t the dying that sated him when he was tense and unable to sleep. It was death. It was becoming God.

He picked up a wrap of pineapple cuts as he walked back to the car, dusting the sand off.

Disclaimer

  • I do not think GOD finds killing or death fascinating. I think only crazy people do.

Day 11: Your current relationship

The way people don dey gather dey wait for this one. Hehe. The attention on every single letter; every phrase perused and re-perused. What are the secrets? What is he hiding? Plug that wire in the socket and bring the bucket of cold water and the towel.

Ha! I’m in a happy relationship. Free me.

See link to other posts here

Beautiful, smart, really, really intelligent and then sexy in a completely wholesome way. If you thought I didn’t deserve that, I don’t blame you. I just thank God and her exes.

We met in the likeliest of ways actually. She thought I was a cad and I was amused by her. If you know one whit about relationships, then you’ll know that’s the number one recipe for falling head over heels.

Cold windy morning and I’m sitting outside the house with my 14 year old son. We are both swaddled in blankets, clutching hot mugs of tea, watching the leaves fall off the trees. I turn to him, voice low but clear: “Find a woman that doesn’t like you, then love her.”

To coin a phrase, “It’s a thin line”, and it’s easy to slip right over to the other side.

When we started dating, it was a whirlwind of emotions. Lots of stomping feet and folded arms and “Just you get out of my life!”. Lmao. Someone that’s completely besotted right now. Someones. I meant someones. Sorry.

Our emotional connection has grown over time. Each opportunity to learn, forging and then lashing, a new cord around our bodies and spirits, bringing us closer together in better accord.

Of course there are terrible days, when communication fails and tempers rise and you almost start to question yourself and all of your decisions. But those days are fewer and the way back is smoother.

“My son,” I continue on that windy day, placing my mug back on the dark ring formed on the wooden stool between us. “Never lose an opportunity to extol your woman”.

I’ve learned plenty from this girl: how to be calm, how to trust, how to comfort, how to be kind, how to pack. Hehe. And for the first time really, I may actually be content.

Disclaimer

  • This woman can work as a Yaba tout. So excellent at packing.

Day 10: A fruit you dislike

I think it’s already pretty established that I like food. Give me a bunch of most fruits, and I’ll devour it. I’ll keep munching till it’s an empty tray and I’m winking at you because you’re my best friend.

Oranges, bananas, apples, pineapples and mangoes, toss any into the mix and watch me perform a magic trick. Cherries, pawpaws, limes and lemons and grapefruits may not be favourites, but I’ll eat them if I have to. Because fruits are healthy. However, there are some fruits you wouldn’t catch me rushing to eat and the soursop is king in that regard.

See link to previous posts here

First of all, do a Google search on the soursop. The first thing that pops out is, this fruit is of unknown origins. Unknown origins! What manner of…?! What other evidence do you need that this is a product of the evility of the Satan? It’s green, it’s scaly, and the insides look as healthy as three days vomit.

Soursop has been touted as a cure for cancer. Just like snake oil, everybody touts the ugliest thing in the yard as the cure for everything. Not surprising. It is scaly like a pineapple, smells a bit like strawberries, the insides are like a mashed banana, and it’s tasteless. It’s practically a cancer of all the fruits. Ugh.

In our family house, we’ve got about three trees of soursop. Hanging at every corner of the house, the only reason I’ve not cut them down is, I’m pretty convinced they work excellently as a demon repellant. I mean, what demon would fly into a compound with soursop in every corner? I just felt a hades-y shudder. Yes, I’m right.

My family on the other hand absolutely enjoy the fruit. You should see them on evenings, munching the bloody things, with such satisfaction their faces. When you’re eating jazz and you don’t know. At least they don’t eat the seeds.

The seeds have been shown to contain a neurotoxin that’s been linked to a variant of the Parkinson’s disease and other neurological malfunctions. See the thing here.

Do I need say any more? I’m not a fan of the soursop or the graviola or whatever moniker this charlatan fruit is going under. But that’s my opinion. What about you?

Disclaimer

  • I’m not stopping anyone from eating soursop. Please, indulge in whatever delights you, cocaine and all. YOLO.

Day 9: Ageism

Being one of the youngest in every group I’ve ever been in, professional, academic or fraternal, I feel really competent to comment on ageism, the effects and how I manage it.

See link to previous posts here

Ageism basically is the discrimination against people based on their ages. Usually, it’s used in respect to older people, who are discriminated in society due to their feebleness, etc. It’s the measure that comes in effect when employers restrict older people from applying for certain roles, and/or restrict them from promotion at certain times.

But ageism can also be about youth

Ageism can also be discrimination against young people, in terms of immaturity. Discrimination that prevents their voices from being heard, that negates their voting rights etc. In some climes, such as mine, this particular form of ageism is more common. Mostly because the demographic in power is usually old, and thus ageist discrimination tends to flow from that direction. That’s why the Nigerian government proposed a bill in 2011 that openly eliminates discrimination based on age when employing, but would never consider appointing a pre-30 year old into political office or even allow such contest a democratic election. In the US, the Age Discrimination Act protects people who are above 40 years. Does shit all for people who are below 40 years though.

18 year olds pay tax however.

Ageism was fostered by older people

In my opinion, older people created ageism. Older people, after decades of facing inabilities, internalising inefficiency and ageist discrimination, turn around to foster that same discrimination on the generations that follow. It is the classic, you should be punished, because I was, whippersnapper!

Another reason why Canada is my dream country; there’s no mandatory retirement age in Canada and even when below 17 years, you’re allowed to work provided you’re not needed at school. Once you’re 17, go work, employee.

Ageism could be intentional or unintentional. I myself realise I have often fallen to the temptation of unintentional ageism. I worry when I see older people alone, so certain they cannot cater to themselves. I snort when I see old men driving, certain they are terrible (why the hell do they drive so slow?). I expect older people not to be tech savvy or know the differences between Netflix and cable TV. It’s to be expected.

After years of being exposed to ageism in varying facets, it’s only expected that it rubs off.

So what do I do?

See people as people

I see people as people. It helps that movies (movies influence me, dammit!) have shown me people like Sylvester Stallone and Tom Cruise, run quarter miles at speeds I cannot even hope of, despite being decades and decades older than me. It also helps that in the groups I’ve worked or studied with, I’ve seen older people who exhibit same or higher levels of intelligence, commitment and vitality as I have. It helps me to see them simply as people. Fellow members of a unit, with flaws and strengths, whose abilities and disabilities stem from their own peculiarities and not as a simple result of their age. This is how I cope with ageism, this is how I push back on my own ageist tendencies.

Disclaimer

  • It’s shameful, and humbling to find I have discriminatory tendencies. Damn.
  • Movies really do influence me much.

Day 8: Artists and Charlatans

As a lover of art, it’s difficult to put an opinion like this in writing and even attempt to make it creative. I’ll rather gush and lambast in a gathering, over beer, with pieces of suya flying out my mouth and waving a chicken leg above my head to buttress my point. Because in one breath, I exalt a writer, his piece of work, efforts and talent, and in another I condemn one, completely and entirely.

Skipping Day 7, because no tattoos.

Yet.

See link to previous posts here

I’ve loved a number of books over time. Fantasy books like the Raven’s Shadow series by Anthony Ryan, Mistborn series by Brandon Sanderson. Mafioso books by Puzo. Spy thrillers by Ludlum, and then late-1990s Cussler. I’ve disliked a few books too; that lord awful Blood and Bone thing by Tomi Adeyemi, that barely lets me past the first chapter, and then all of the rip-offs that are Nnedi Okoroafor’s bestsellers.

The Parsifal Mosaic by Ludlum is one of my favourite books of all time. To start with, it’s the story of a black operations engineer, (read: spy/assassin) who worked for the US State Department and retires after supervising a mission in which his fiancée is shown to be a traitor and is killed before his eyes.
Drama. Passion. Pain. Violence.

His psyche is torn apart in typical Ludlum fashion, and he embarks on a road to rediscovery before he takes on a position in a university as professor of history. While touring his old haunts, cities he had never seen in the daylight, cities in which he had masterminded assasinations, blackmailed bureaucrats, but this time as a tourist, he happens on his supposed dead girlfriend at a busy train station in Rome. A trapdoor to a whirlwind of turmoil is opened and he is tossed back into the world he had left, as he chases after her, chases after those who set them up, upending a chess game initiated by a mad genius strategist codenamed Parsifal, hell-bent on showing the world the hubris behind giving too much power to one person.

The action in Parsifal is explosive, every chapter has stakes higher than the last. You are driven to experience the protagonist; Mikhail Havlicek’s, turmoil, to feel the stress that erupts from his childhood trauma carrying suicide packs on the streets of Prague in the old Nazi occupied Czechoslovakia. To feel that stress repeat itself as he races against time to piece together the mosaic and save his sanity, the life of his fiancée and the mind of his priyatel and mentor.

Everything written by Nnedi Okoroafor is plagiarism, as far as I can recall. Finely crafted sentences, able to fool plagiarism checkers, but basic rewordings of any of a hundred different fantasy novels.

Disclaimer

  • I have nothing against Nnedi. I think she’s a brilliant content developer.

Day 6: Fascinations

I had to check the dictionary, and then because I wasn’t satisfied, check Google for the meaning of fascination before writing this. And good thing I did, because my initial subject of interest was Muhammed Buhari, self-acclaimed leader of Nigeria’s Republic, (self-acclaimed because he supervised and then won a completely corrupt and undemocratic election). But then, I found out fascination doesn’t mean, amazement and stupefaction, because, bless me Jesus, that man leaves me amazed and stupefied with each turn. It actually means admire. So well, I don’t admire Buhari.

See link to previous post here

I admire Mrs Adebowale. Oh, it’s not for the usual stuff: lifegiver, caregiver, constant source of comfort and support and succour. That counts utmostly, but isn’t the focus of this piece. It’s for the one major talent that every parent must learn and then, somehow pass on; it’s for her ability to always seem as though she has everything under control.

Here’s the rub.

I am an adult now, I have responsibilities that choke my responsibilities on a daily basis. I understand how there is a pressure to seem as though everything is under control, even though I’m practically living paycheck to paycheck. On most Saturdays, I look as though everything is alright, everything under control, every harness checked, every letter properly crossed and dotted. But somewhere on Thursday, by about 5:42pm, I am in shambles, struggling to keep every stitch from coming loose, grasping at straws and then pulling on threads, thoughts flying every whichever, basically at odds with myself. It’s barely visible to those afar, but pretty clear to all who are close and familial that I’m stretching at seams. It’s de rigeur, every adult faces it. This woman, though keeps it together, every day of the bloody week. Every week.

She’s strong. Stronger than most people I know, psychologically and physically. She once pinned down a 30 plus year old man who wanted to beat me up, and then talked him into silence. She’s brilliant, one of the most analytical minds I’ve ever seen put problem to the thought mill. She will grind out a workable solution of most problems, be they rock or mountain, without even formal education of that subject matter.

She inspires me to go further, to do more, with all that I have. She is the voice, often behind my ear, telling me not to worry, and to make the best of every situation. She taught me how to delay gratification, a philosophy that rules most of my daily decisions, that has made me a harder worker than I would have been.

Mrs Adebowale fascinates me.

Disclaimer

  • That fascinate doesn’t mean amaze has really set me back, questioning all the conversations I’ve ever had.