As we form so-called episodic memories, the brain appears to be using special cells in the hippocampus to “geotag” each event, researchers report in Science. The process is similar to what some digital cameras do when they tag each picture with information about where the image was taken.
As a result of this automatic geotagging, memories about places and events are “fused together,” says Michael Kahana, a psychologist at the University of Pennsylvania, and one of the study’s authors. “You come to a location where something happened and it reminds you of an event,” he says. “Or you think of an event and it reminds you of the place where it happened.”
Kopis’taya, a Gathering of Spirits
From the book Life is a Fatal Disease: Collected Poems
1962-1995 © Paula Gunn Allen ©1997
Because we live in the browning season
the heavy air blocking our breath,
and in this time when living
is only survival, we doubt the voices
that come shadowed on the air,
that weave within our brains
certain thoughts, a motion that is soft,
imperceptible, a twilight rain,
soft feather’s fall, a small body dropping
into its next, rustling, murmuring, settling
in for the night.
Because we live in the hardedged season
where plastic brittle and gleaming shine,
and in this space that is cornered and angled,
we do not notice wet, moist, the significant
drops falling in perfect spheres that are certain measures
of our minds;
almost invisible, those tears,
soft as dew, fragile, that cling to leaves,
petals, roots, gentle and sure,
We are the women of the daylight, of clocks
and steel foundries, of drugstores
and streetlights, of superhighways
that slice our days in two. Wrapped around
in plastic and steel we ride our lives;
behind dark glasses we hide our eyes;
our thoughts, shaded, seem obscure.
Smoke fills our minds, whiskey husks our songs,
polyester cuts our bodies from our breath,
our feet from the welcoming stones of earth.
Our dreams are pale memories of themselves
and nagging doubt is the false measure
of our days.
Even so, the spirit voices are singing,
their thoughts are dancing in the dirty air.
Their feet touch the cement, the asphalt
delighting, still they weave dreams upon our
shadowed skulls, if we could listen.
If we could hear.
Let’s go then. Let’s find them.
Let’s listen for the water, the careful
gleaming drops that glisten on the leaves,
the flowers. Let’s ride
the midnight, the early dawn.
Feel the wind striding though our hair.
Let’s dance the dance of feathers,
the dance of birds.
This post is soooo good at articulating why it’s so harmful to have to relate women to men through their relationships with men