random rants

You have probably heard the term left brain vs. right brain. You may have heard that this underscores creative vs. analytical people. That’s a folk tale, the equivalent of saying the left side of a luxury liner is responsible for keeping the ship afloat, and the right is responsible for making it move through the water. Both sides are involved in both processes. That doesn’t mean the hemispheres are equal, however. The right side of the brain tends to remember the gist of an experience, and the left brain tends to remember the details.

Researcher Larry Cahill eavesdropped on men’s and women’s brains under acute stress (he showed them slasher films), and what he found is this: Men handled the experience by firing up the amygdala in their brain’s right hemisphere. Their left was comparatively silent. Women handled the experience with the opposite hemisphere. They lit up their left amygdala, their right comparatively silent. If males are firing up the right hemisphere (the “gist dictator”), does that mean males remember more gist than detail of a given emotional experience related to stress? Do females remember more detail than gist of an emotional experience related to stress? Cahill decided to find out.

Medina, John (2010-07-06). Brain Rules: 12 Principles for Surviving and Thriving at Work, Home, and School (p. 250/251). Perseus Books Group. Kindle Edition.

“I’m open to possibilities,” I said with maybe a bit too much excitement.
“Ooooh, ‘I’m open to possibilities!’”, he repeated after me with a seductive voice.
I chuckled and started - “No, no, I didn’t mean…”, while she wrapped herself around his arms and exclaimed “He’s mine to fuck!”

He was the first black gay that I’ve met. A minority within minority. She was the first Finnish blonde I’ve met, eyes you could get lost in for hours. It was my first couchsurfing meetup ever - we were sitting in a beer garden (a mind-boggling concept I’ve had to explain innumerable times to my guests since). After a few hours of fun conversations the few left of us went to a restaurant where I had my first quesadilla, while a sleazy Floridian explained how he saves money by cheating on public transportation to get his documentary about hooligans finished. Alicia did her thing where she speaks in a very deep, barely audible, seductive voice, so I couldn’t understand a thing she’s saying; Devon did his thing and was an open, friendly, flamboyant conversation maintainer.

At his farewell party I’ve met Riina again, although she didn’t recognize me. The walls of the club were covered in what looked like trees, upon closer investigation masterfully varied shapes of people fornicating. A shy, dorky Slovak gay was trying to get too friendly, I made fun of Devon’s coworkers, Alicia did her thing again (and I missed my cue again), and I walked home, back to the most expensive, expat-infested part of Prague.

Two years later I’ve met her again, right under a giant metronome towering above the city, not far from the original beer garden. She said she hasn’t met me before, so I did a smart thing for once and didn’t tell her I accidentally found her name in our customer database, nor that we looked each other in the eyes, just a hundred meters from where were now standing, with NYE fireworks exploding above our heads.

Half a year later I’ve met a bartender who looks exactly like her, and it didn’t surprise me, as I was getting my n-th cider in a cellar just across the sea from Finland. “They all keep repeating,” I thought silently, and just enjoyed the world for what it is.