Entry Note To Self...the ecotone

The Ecotone

Journal Entry: 1/11/18

On my morning walk this morning, I noticed the beauty of where the forest meets the meadow. The ecotone...that defined space where two habitats merge. That threshold where water meets the shore, where the forest comes to meadow, where woodland ends at a cultivated lawn, or where the sky meets the earth. It is the edge habitat where everything, soil content, vegetation, moisture, humidity, light, pollination, changes. It’s also where species from both sides converge, rendering it a place of complex interaction and diversity. 

The edge...

Things are always happening there. The small sea birds as they scramble from the edge of the waves, poking their beaks in the sand looking for that bite size crustacean. The Osprey as they break the edge of the water then tower to the sky with their next meal. Life just seems to happen on the edge.

It is a place of constant change and unexpected appearances. Such a distinction can be helpful when you are trying to distill a nebulous idea into a handful of words, or just in reflecting on a memory from our past. It is nothing more than noticing that space where broken sea shells become the sandy shore... just a glance is enough to remind us of the intensity and yet simple complexity in these places of transition, where one thing manages to become another. Edge walking with our mind and bodies.

We are all edge walkers when you really think about it. Always looking at the edge for our inspiration, our thrill, and our transition. Looking outward at the horizon or inward trying to discern the edge of our soul. That edge between depression and happiness, between control and freedom. The edge between love and hate, compassion and resentment. That space on the horizon where night becomes day and day to night. Life just happens on the edge and we all are just edge walkers between life and death...make your distinctions well my friends ...Doc

Photo Art: Marc Wabler

Entry Notes To Self...goofing off

From on the road...

I observed an ole man today, just goofing off

Journal Entry: 1/15/18

It was just after sunrise and we were getting ready to leave our mooring. He walked by and said, ”how's your monkey mind today?" 

The local proprietor told us to pay him no mind...that's just ole Dolittle, as we call him. Another young fellow chimed in and said ”he has mastered the fine art of goofing off."

Now in no way did I want to leave with that perception of Dolittle, so I followed him up the dock and caught up with him just as he was about to bait his hook.

”How’s it going?”

”Don’t know just yet. My hooks not in the water. If you don’t mind, you are standing where I want to sit.”

He took his ole five gallon bucket, turned it upside down and sat where I had been standing. 

”Not much of a seat, but it will do for a poor man. I'm so poor that when I die they can bury me without pockets. For that matter they can bury me without clothes, but don't open the casket. After all, underneath all them clothes people wear they are neeked. There is a difference you know between being neeked and being naked. Being neeked is like your getting away with something. Naked is just like being without clothes...I like being neeked."

He gave me a wink and a grin. ”Yep, I was so poor growing up that tumble weeds were my pets."

I asked him what he thought about the city folks that occasionally make it out this way. 

He quickly replied, ”I think they are as windy as a sack full of farts."

”Had me that whatchamacallit.”

”You mean this thingamajig?”

”Yes, but that is a whatchamacallit not a thingamajig.”

”What’s the difference?”

”Everybody knows a thingamajig is something useful and a whatchamacallit is something made for no apparent reason unless you want to put something init.”

”Well in my part of the world, it may be called a doodad.”

”Nah, a doodad and whatnot are them things you buy at flea markets that weren’t no good to start with but everybody gotta have one when you find em. Geeeez mister, you must be from the city or a yank from North Louisiana.”

A fine day it was in conversation with a man just goofing off.

His name is Ambrose.

From Inside The Sane Asylum...conversation

Conversation Between Dr. Ego and Jes B. Rambling

Sometimes spelled with two s’es.

Journal Entry: 1/8/18

Jes: “Hey Doc, did you know that English has a phenomenon whereby so called “objective” pronouns, (just like ordinary noun phrases)are actually used as the subjects of gerundives, whereas the subject forms are unusual in this case. For example: If a gerund is a noun that can have special properties such as using an adverb, why is that OK as a property of the gerund, but using the "objective" form for the subject isn't?

Doc: “Well Jes, my recommendation would  be to just say and write the form that feels most natural to you. If you feel that (c) sounds like natural English to you, then great. If (a) feels more natural to you, but you feel compelled to use (c) anyway because of some piece of linguistic etiquette based on spurious argumentation, then by all means use (c), but it's worth recognising that that's what you're doing...and besides Jes, never bet against me being stupid...

P.s. Doc is the tall one

Entry Note To Self...confidence

The Old Barn

Journal Entry: 1/7/18

If you are coming from the south, turn right at the only red light in Hornbeck. Go over the railroad tracks and take the fork to the left. Drive until the black top turns to gravel and dirt. About two miles you will come to some dogs laying in the road. Make your way through the dogs and take the first dirt lane on the left.  As you round the curve you will see my house down in the pasture. You will find me in the old barn...

TK,  they call him. He lives to the north side of Hornbeck. When I went to visit TK on my last trip into that part of the world, he gave me those directions to find his house;

Sure enough, he was in the barn grooming a skinny ole paint horse he had just rescued from the grips of Horse Heaven.

I've known TK all my living days. We played in the woods, made pine top forts, explored small ponds and even double dated sisters on one occasion when we were still wet behind the ears. TK could write a dissertation on the Game Of Dominoes, simply because he claims to be the world’s foremost expert on the fine art of the game. Said the only time he loses a game is when he has to donate a game for the aid of  personal pity or use it as a long range strategy.

Tall and spry, dressed in faded Big Mac overalls with a loud welcome of, ”look what the cats dragged in; see you found the dogs in the road!" He is always quick with a joke and a philosophy on just about any subject you can conjure up.

I don't even know how we got off on the subject of Dominoes. Never my intention. I only wanted a pint of his famous corn whiskey. It may have been the sampling from the pint mason jar that lead us in that direction? Not sure, but he tasted it first, said he wanted to make sure it was still good. Guess it was still good, as he passed it over to me for my liking. Yep, it was that sampling that begged my first question. ”Is it true TK, that you are the best Domino player in the world?"

”Y no," he said. ”But I beat the hell out of the best that said they was."

Domino is a good game. A game of skill. I would say it is about 10 percent luck. It requires a lot of concentration, thought, and just plan smart ass grit. Not like golf or chess where silence is required of spectators and competitors alike. A good player must shake off any heckling remarks. A Domino player has much more on his mind. He is working on his style of play. 

TK for example said he played with an Amateur Style. As he describes it; ”Amateurs play not knowing their next play. Just random, not following any expected strategy. It makes my competitors try and figure out what I'm going to do next. I know, if I don't know, then they couldn't know either." See how the moonshine brings out the best in logic?

TK plays most mornings at Hoot's Barber Shop. I spotted it as I crossed over the railroad tracks. A gathering of the towns finest men, doing their part to keep the moral and social fabric of Hornbeck alive. A lot of social bonding and way to many lies being exchanged. They call it therapy and gossip . I call it a reason to get out of the house. I always thought it would be great to host a live daily radio broadcast from Hoots Barber at the time of these gatherings. Maybe sell cassette recordings of the Therapy sessions...:)

There was an old straight back chair leaning against the barn wall. TK introduced the chair as, the retired in honor chair, of old man Pete Alford. As the story goes, Pete sat on that chair every Friday morning for twelve years, in this barn to best TK's Amateur Style.

”Alford was a nice feller, a fine upstanding citizen and looked reasonably good in his clothes for a man of his age. He just didn't understand the game of Dominoes very well." TK continue to spout, ”I feel it is my duty to report that I beat him sober, not so sober, whittling whist I whistled, and even left handed. Beat him four out of five times when we played...well maybe three out of four." As he looked up and grinned. ”Alford retired from Dominos in 1997 the same year the chair retired."

TK is known for his Wisecracking Psychology game strategy when he wants to humiliate his opponents and destroy their confidence. Here are a few techniques he shared with me:

Laugh-as if you didn't intend to, while your opponent is studying the board. Play fast for those that ponder and hesitate. Ponder and hesitate for those who play fast. After you choose your rock to be played, pause with your arm in midair, purse your lips as in thought then lay it ever so softly on the table. Each time after you win, idly say to your opponent, "one day I sure would like to know why you played that way." This implies stupidity and gives them something to think about. Before you begin each game, let your opponents know that 50% of your foes seek mental health counseling after playing you. Never appear to doubt the tale of your opponents, no matter how improbable. Except for Champions, and they have no need to gild the lily. They all are liars and braggarts. Smile, nod, and politely mumur as your opponent tells of humiliating ole Joe or Bob. Just say in admiration. "Gee Pete, you must have been really good...back then...gimme twenty-five."

We even played a game or two. After getting soundly whooped, I commented to him that I wished I were a good Domino player. He quipped, ”Yep, I wish you was too."

You see, the Game of Dominoes, as in the game of life, one’s confidence can seem boundless, but the matter for keeping it...well, that remains forever the challenge. Does it not?

Be well, play your doubles when you can and always take the dirt Lane past the dogs in the road. You just might enjoy an afternoon therapy session with an old friend...a pint of good moonshine and much more...Doc

Life At Windrush Lake...

Life At Windrush Lake

My Ole Sweater

Journal Entry: 12/30/17

Another beautiful steel blue sky. Steady cool wind from the South to make my favorite wool sweater feel just the way I thought it would feel. I save this sweater for special days. When I put It on I know I have reconnected with an ole friend. The sweater who knows it was selected special for this day. The one who only shares the days when It’s warmth makes it just right.

It seems today is the day they are delivering the Yellow Pages book to all the neighborhood. All placed in these hermetically sealed plastic bags and thrown from a slow moving car, traveling about twenty yards and, hopefully, landing right up next to the steps leading to the porch. I watched this airmail delivery system all the way up Woodberry. I must say, the one throwing had some talent. This was no relief pitcher. No sir, this was a starter, and if he has a good contract I’m sure he will be back this same time next year. Who even uses Yellow Pages anyway?

I turned down Buckhorn to walk through Savannah Park. It’s a small park nestled against a wooded area. Occasionally I spot wild life just on the edge, peering into civilization and more times than not, racing back into their wooded protection. This day I ran into one of my neighbors trying to place a Blue Bird Box. He gave me that slight wave and a nod and asked...

”Got any suggestions?”

”Can you be more specific,” I asked.

”About the direction to place the opening.”

”Pete, do you want to hear my suggestion or just my opinion?”

Well that started a lengthy discussion. He said he read somewhere they like the opening to face south. I related that it probably did not make a whole lot of difference but had to do more with the location. To me question of direction does not always refer to compass bearing, but rather the orientation the house opening faces to afford safety, comfort and convenience after the bluebird pair mates. If placed along a road or highway, the bluebird house should open parallel to, or away from the road so the birds will not be hit entering or leaving their nests. If placed to the South and West it would be to exposed to extreme weather. Ideally, I would think the nest box's opening should face toward trees or shrubs so young bluebirds have a place of safety for their first flight and the parents have a direct access to easy catch to feed the hungry brood insects after hatching. That would be East, and besides, facing East they can see the sun rise each day. 

“How about West?”

“Nope...facing West they would be in full view of the Fisher Man that lives on the corner. I know him well, and the little hatchlings do not need to be exposed to his likes.”

Well that’s my reasoning. It’s about time to leave Pete so he can solve his own problems. But on my walk tomorrow it will be interesting to see if he took my suggestion or just wanted my opinion. Makes little difference, I feel good in my favorite sweater, on this day.

Be well and for Pete’s sake, just make peace with yourself...Doc

Reflections From The World...The French Quarter Series

That Night On Bourbon Street

I turned toward Canal and walked down to the corner of Dumaine and Bourbon. Bourbon 

Street was blocked off as it is at night and an enormous crowd filled the streets as far as I could see. Music from an outdoor concert three blocks away washing over the crazed 

revelers. I love to watch people and this was a fantastic place to do so.

Then I noticed someone who seemed beautifully and oddly out of place. Tucked back against one of the old brick buildings, was a fresh-faced young woman sitting in a folding chair behind a tiny, makeshift desk. She was surrounded by the dense crowd literally falling out of the open doors of the burgeoning Cafe Lafitte in Exile across the street. Revelers high above on the balcony called those in the packed street below. Before her sat an old-fashioned manual typewriter. Most people her age have never even seen a manual typewriter (or an electric one for that matter), much less used one. Taped to the edge of her “desk” was a small cardboard sign with a hand written message: “Poet for Hire.”

This was an unexpected sight to say the least. She was not a “street person,” along with the fortune tellers or street performers around Jackson Square. She seemed serious and vulnerable sitting there. I ventured over and asked what she was doing. She said she was a writer and this was her practice – to write publicly. I asked how it worked and she replied that I could tell her something I had been thinking or maybe some idea or a word of interest and she would write a poem for a donation. I immediately dug into my wallet while telling her what I had been thinking during my walk following my solitary dinner. She seemed to understand. Then, she took out two small pieces of paper, sandwiched an equal sized piece of carbon paper between them (who uses carbon paper anymore?), rolled it into the typewriter, and began. I excused myself to fight my way through the crowd to use the bathroom at Lafitte’s, partially so I would not be standing over her as she wrote. Never mind that she was surrounded by thousands of very raucous people, but now we had a kind of spontaneous and unspoken intimacy that required respect.

When I returned, she was still writing, so I sat down next to her on the sidewalk amid the empty Red Bull cans and scattered beer bottles. I just sat in silence as she tapped away amid the chaos. In a few minutes I heard the unmistakable sound of paper being extracted from the roller of an ancient typewriter and she handed me my poem. Here is what she had written.

We party like pirates

who are going to be ghosts tomorrow

The streets are stained

with sweat and rain

The brick walls rent by the shifting earth

and in the fissure the hot green rot

of new life, licking at the flames

It is our pain

These gaping wounds

that make way for the river

that flows through us all

making us beautiful places to visit

Aching and crumbling

and crying make sweet breaking music

A trilling trumpet on the air:

One last drowning cry.

Erin Lierl

Bourbon Street, New Orleans

She had really heard me, and beyond that, she had penetrated my evening musings in a way I never expected. She took my first thought and moved it deeper and opened it further. This is what we hope to do for each other as spiritual friends. In this case, we had made a tiny, temporary island of connection in the rolling humanity and humidity of Bourbon Street. Aside from the content of the poem itself, this young woman had appeared mysteriously, in an unlikely place and time, and had touched me with her wisdom and compassion. 

I walked back by her again later that night returning to my hotel. She was writing for herself amidst the even more inebriated crowd. I hoped to find her the next day...but she was gone.

May your day be filled with the spirit of The Big Easy...Beau B.

Entry Note To Self...RIP

Just A Collection Of Thoughts

Journal Entry: 1/15/18

As I progress into the last quarter of my life, I find that I have more time to answer people’s questions. Questions that use to bother me when asked, for example...”what do you want put on your headstone?” I use to blow that one off. “Who the hell wants to think about that.” 

Well that use to be. Now I have the time to answer that question. I have always leaned toward, “I have nothing more to say.” Seems like the “right” last thing to say as you are signing off. 

Lately this other thought on that subject has started to creep. If it were today, right now even, I think I would go with, “I always wanted to be a sheep herder!!”

Don’t really know why? Don’t even want to think about that. It’s just a thought, tucked away with other collections of thought.

The other thought I had, was to be cremated and put a pinch of me in these little glass vials on a necklace and have them distributed to everyone at my memorial. Maybe they will feel obligated to hang me around their necks for just a little while. It would be funny to watch and see how they disposed of me on the way home...:)

This whole dilemma would have not come up had it not been for someone referring to me as “ Looking Dapper” the other day. It struck me that I have never been called that before and for good reason. I wasn’t old enough. 

It’s an adjective that is applied only to men – never to women – after a certain age. It’s meant as a compliment: your suit was obviously dry-cleaned in the recent past, your shirt was ironed, your hair is combed, you shaved yourself within the past few days. 

It’s like that other indication that you have crossed a threshold and are drawing every closer to your appointment with the grim reaper. That’s when you meet someone younger than you and they look at you wide-eyed, with slightly raised eyebrows and declare with a hint of surprise that "you’re looking very well”.

It’s the sort of thing you don’t say to teenagers or to people in middle age. It is reserved for, well, people like me. You are not dead, it means you are not dribbling, you are not lying on a trolley in a corridor. No indeed, you are looking very well.

If I recall, there was even a doll in the 50s called Dapper Dan with his girlfriend Dressy Bessie...?

What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes...

Just thoughts...now off to do my chores here in The Sane Asylum 

Be Well...Doc
https://www.facebook.com/skyvillelive/videos/1995324297348804/

Photo By: Christopher Bryson

Entry Note To Self...Meaning?

Red Umbrella Under Moonlight Sky

Journal Entry: 1/16/18

One of my favorite things to do is walk around whatever neighborhood I’m in. I walk every day and I look at the sky, the fields and even the smallest of things and I say: 'Oh, what a blessing.' Then you realise it's important to put it in a context beyond this woman, this man, this city, this country, this universe. It goes beyond everything. It goes to the core of our reason for being here. ”What if there is no reason for being here and – there's no easy way to put this – nice walks around the neighborhood are as good as it gets? It's still a blessing."

Today I do not want to resolve the mysteries...I just want to walk...Doc

Photo: Christopher Bryson Collection

Lest we forget...

From The Archives

Dumb A** Mistake 

Well, it’s that time of year again. Lest we forget...

For the last few days I have been watching more football than my brain can enjoy. But what the hell, everyone else seems to be enjoying so why not join in. 

There is a lot of talk about the coaches...mostly about how much they make and second guessing their play calling. What I noticed most was the dumb ass mental mistakes by the players. Case in point. The Off Side call. The lineman execute this down set before you snap the ball thousands of times, but every once in a while they just jump off sides before the ball is snapped for no dump ass reason. The brain just makes a dumb ass reflex.  Can't explain it. The reflex just happens. Grown men slapping their helmet in disgust and lip syncing "What the --".

The other day I was backing out of my garage. I thought I put the car in reverse but guess it was a dumb ass mental mistake and I dropped it a notch or two lower into drive. Now when you accelerate and you sense you are going in the wrong direction your brain wants to help out and slam on your breaks. It knows how to do that, but the brain makes a big dumb ass reflex and presses the foot harder on the accelerator rather than withdrawing. "What the --", I thought as I sat in my storage closet looking at the rake and hoe hanging on the wall. Never use them but there they were, hanging neatly just outside my car door. Ended up off sides in my storage closet.

Now I must say, Ms. Ego was not very happy, even after I tried to explain to her that it was a big dumb ass mental mistake followed by a dumb ass brain reflex. "It was only a mental mistake and a brain reflex, can happen to anyone", I pleaded.  I even tried to explain to her that older people's response time is much slower and it never occurred to me to take my foot off the accelerator.  A lot like my recall lately. Things just don't occur to me like they use too. I went so far to explain that the average reaction reflex time to a visual stimuli is .025 of a second and .017 to an audio stimulus, and if she would have been watching she could have yelled at me and maybe I would have stopped sooner...She's not happy!

Reflexes come in all kinds. Conditioned, unconditioned and just the ordinary kind when an action is carried out through the mediation of the nervous system but not requiring the cooperation of the brain for its execution. Just a response of a perturbing stimulus that acts to return the body to homeostasis. The reflex arc, the receptor at the end of a sensory neuron, the afferent neuron, the efferent neuron traveling up the efferent pathway. I know all that crap but it was of no value in explaining how I ended up in the storage closet due to a dumb ass reflex.

I needed some deeper insight on this reflex subject, so I called my good friend Jess Ben Rambling and related how I had been hit hard of recent by "dumb ass reflexes".  Now I don't  know what I was expecting to hear. Maybe some sympathy followed by "it can happen to the best of us". Or maybe, "are you ok?". Hell, I would have settled for, "that was a real dumb ass reflex". He was silent for a moment trying to make contact with his deeper self, I suppose, then responded..."Many times I reflex on past memories and friends."

What the --!

Somewhat-not-half-bad-on-a-good-day...Doc

From The Far Side Of The Screen...privacy

From The Far Side Of The Glass

My Bent On Privacy

Journal Entry: 1/11/18

One thing that intrigues me about Facebook is the amount of open transparency. I’m not faulting this at all. It is just the way it is. I just have never been the type to let everyone know I was having a fish taco at Don Juans. For some reason, I have always had the bent to be more private and I find that I am that way as I communicate with my G+ circles. 

Not much different than the rest of my life...I tend to keep a garden of friends and acquaintances just large enough that I can care and maintain but still retain my privacy. It surprises me in some ways, because I find myself prying a little into other people’s privacy. Mostly strangers, just trying to know them better and acknowledge them as my fellow human. 

I was up St. Augustine way a week after Hurricane Irma had made her dance up the coast line. She waltzed her way up the coast right on the heels of Hurricane Harvey. . Anyway, I introduced myself to this gentleman on the elevator. He looked like the engineering type. Very proper looking, I might add, as he reached out his hand and said ”my name is Harvey”.

When I asked him did he miss Irma, not a smile did he show. Never even asked me “Who’s Irma?” I suppose he is just very private that way.

Back to my original thought...when I started posting a few years back I still had some business and professional ties. It was really none of their business what I posted or had to say to the world...but it was. So I started posting under the moniker of Dr. Ego Prozac. That way no one would really know who I am. Well, as I got deeper into it I got concerned that the big Pharm would take me down for using their trade name Prozac, so I decided to go underground and started posting under the name Dr. Ego Prozac Underground. I still have an active blog today with that same name. I go there when I want more privacy. :)

This “Selfie Thing” has me a bit confused. How can I be more transparent but still remain private? I think it’s important to show our resemblance. Just some glimpse of our shadow helps. Funny how many post there are of people showing their shadow. For me, I have played with different forms but mostly it’s just me trying to look less vain, always looking down, and fuzzed out by this app. called Imagine Edit. Showing just enough to make me look real.

I don’t have those professional ties anymore, so I no longer have to hide my twisted mind and crooked smile, but even without the restraints, I am bent on being a little private.

Good news is, it’s just a few weeks away until Mardi Gras and then I can put on my mask and be anyone I want to be! Maybe I will just be myself this year? A Pirate!

https://youtu.be/ITDgDkqYbss

So, From The Far Side Of The Glass...here’s looking at you?

Let the good times roll...

Doc

P.s...Be free, impose yourself but remain discreet, mark your imprint on the world, be the masterpiece of your birth and the meaning of something for someone.

Entry Note To Self...2%

la part des anges...The Angels Share

Journal Entry: 1/8/18

Once upon a time there were two sisters...

Ura Aging is the sister of Imma Wrinking. They are Ole Maid school teachers. Both are retired and live in Fisher, a small sawmill village owned by 4L Lumber Company.

On most days you might spot them sitting on their front porch drinking the Angles Share of Pappy Van Winkle. If you ask them what they are drinking, it will always be the cry, "

”23 year old Angels Share."

I like the number 23. It's a fitting age to end on for whiskey and has played a central role in every important event in history. When you start looking, it all seems so obvious: Julius Caesar stabbed 23 times. Michael Jordan’s jersey number, and of course, 23 year old Pappy Van Winkle.  

Now if you know anything about good whiskey you will know the Pappy blend is quiet sought after and hard to come by. Considered the most expensive bourbon in the world. 

How anyone gets Pappy is somewhat of a mystery. Some serendipity combined with a little bit of luck I suppose. Each year around Thanksgiving, Buffalo Trace Distillery begins allocating their yearly allotment. Only a ridiculously small amount of Pappy is distributed to liquor stores; most of the bottles go to bars and restaurants where an ounce can go for $100.

Now don't get Pappy Van Winkle and Rip Van Winkle confused. Rip took to the woods to escape from a nagging wife, drank some Dutch elixir and feel asleep for twenty years. Since that time henpecked husbands often wish they could have a sip of Rip Van Winkle's elixir to sleep through their own wives' nagging..

  

No one knows how Imma and Ura acquire their Pappy. I personally think it is their good looks. All in all, it seems to help their arthritis. The sisters stay busy making casserole dishes for the widowed and posting on Facebook. On rare occasions, they have been spotted late at night, skinny dipping in the mill pond with brothers John and Vern Funderburk. Quiet the gossip around the village. Must be the Angels share of Pappy taking hold?

May all the Angels be your sheltering and joyful guardians...May you partake of the Angels share of life before it is to late...Doc

Entry Note To Self...Things of the heart

The Biology Of Love

I always think of my ole friend, Pablo, and our discussions of language and how language produces within us a Biology Of Love. Especially so on this cool and bright morning. 

As I made my normal rounds this morning, I happened upon this guy named Harvey. Looked like an engineer type. Very precise and proper. In a good way. I never took offense at his manner. Quite a nice surprise on this beautiful day. We even conversed, discussed and cussed our way around the world and then I asked him, "Do you miss Irma?"  "Just joking Harvey." And did I say he had no humor button?

Well, I was just joking...seems Harvey had no clue. Not even a smile did he give. But it did remind me of the many in my life I truly miss.

"I just don't feel like myself without you," is probably something you've thought when you've missed someone you care about.

This idea randomly popped into my head as I walked on. I remember the words of Pablo;

"I am not entirely sure if the science behind this is accurate because even the scientists aren't sure about the accuracy. Emotions are difficult to understand, and neurotransmitters are difficult to track."

So with that said, here's my take on things: a layman's definition of why you might actually feel like a different person when you're away from your significant other (or anyone close to your heart). Anyway, I'm out here on this grand morning, so why not muck it up with some thought....

Biology and psychology teach us that our bodies naturally produce certain chemicals- hormones are produced by glands, and neurotransmitters by the central nervous system. Evolutionarily these chemicals help us to form emotional bonds to be able to maintain group relationships, intimate relationships, and parental relationships. They help keep us alive. Today, there's a lot more added to the mix, and as a result there's a lot more grey area.

The hormones related to "love" are estrogen/testosterone, and oxytocin. The neurotransmitters most closely involved are seratonin and dopamine.

Again, we produce all of these chemicals naturally, but when you are with someone you love, they surge. When they surge, your body speeds up to process them all. When you spend an extended period of time with someone you love, you basically become addicted to an elevated level of all of these chemicals, and your body becomes used to processing them all more quickly.

If your body is used to producing all of those chemicals, and processing them quickly, can you imagine what happens when you leave the person that causes it? In short, withdrawal happens. Your body stops producing an abundance of seratonin, oxytocin, etc., and to make matters worse, the chemicals that your body does produce continue to be processed so quickly it's as if they were never there.

Now you might be wondering, how does this impact one's emotional state? Well, in many ways, but it usually mimics symptoms of depression and anxiety. This is why so many people say, "I don't feel like myself," or, "I miss my other half," because their body has become used to certain stimulation that they are no longer receiving.

If you think about it, that's why the honeymoon phase in a romantic relationship feels like such a high at the beginning. Because that surge is new, and it feels good. They're all happy chemicals after all. But just like any drug, your body gets used to it, and it still feels good, you just might need extra every once in a while (hello date night).

Anyway, when you're ripped from the person that you love, it hurts. It could take months for your body to get back to normal, and every time you see that person in between, the clock is reset.

So before you beat yourself up for missing someone so much, remember this: "you can't help it."

No discussion needed on this one...best we think for ourselves about this subject. After all, it's just what I think, and I could be wrong...:) 

Whatever may be the reason..."I would say it’s a very nice feeling to miss someone" ...Regards, Doc

Reflections From The World...

The Christopher Bryson Series...

As I sat there enjoying Jambalaya and Boudin Balls, I heard the trumpet play "It's the End of the World As We Know It"...It was perfection. Life In The French Quarter

Would you like

To ride on a train,

Walk in the rain,

Or feel no pain?

Reflections From The World...Pretending

Ed Valfre’s Dreamland...

Every afternoon, she would sit on the same bench under the same tree and pretend to read an interesting book. It had been her hope that a nice young man with intellectual taste would one day notice her and strike up a conversation. She finally met a sweet young man, who as luck would have it, also liked pretending to read interesting books.