The Challenger Deep Brain

Jason Padgett’s brain opened a portal, and he stepped through it to a world of Mathematical/Geometrical artistic equations. And how he arrived in that strange and wondrous place was by brutality….

There are many wonders in our oceans. There are the surface areas where we swim, boat, fish, cruise, fight the waves, or give in to the waves. Diving deeper, we can explore the beauties of this under-the-surface world. But there are depths, dark and mysterious, that we do not know. Dive to the deepest murkiest depths and there are creatures there that have adapted to their environment in strange (to us) ways. 

The deepest part of the ocean is called The Challenger Deep located in the Pacific Ocean. Almost 36,000 feet deep (as far as scientists know anyway). So much is unknown and unexplored. Much that may never be seen or understood. 

We don’t like it when we do not understand something.

Our brains are like the Challenger Deep. So much we do not understand about the whys and hows of this organ—the most complex part of us. Weighing about 3 pounds, it is our intelligence, gives us our senses, controls our body movements, and controls our behaviors. Much of its mysteries can only be explored upon someone’s death, and by then it is too late to know just how it works because it is then dead, too. So we guess, and we study, and we may never, like The Challenger Deep, know all its mysteries.

When the brain is mostly working “as it should,” we may barely pay attention to it. We go about our day taking for granted that everything will work “as it should.” But when something goes wrong, we are on high alert: will this be forever? If it is forever, will it be any worse? How do we navigate life in this new normal? What is normal? 

In the deepest parts of the ocean, creatures have adapted to their environment. They do not consider what the creatures above them are doing, or what they look like, or how they behave—if they are not food or a mate or a threat, they are not important. They do not consider abnormal. They likely do not think about what is next but concentrate on what is now: find food, find mate, find shelter. They go about their days one to the next uncaring about the others that live among and around and above them. But of course they do not have the richness of days as we humans have, or maybe they do, in their own way, rejoice in just where and how and who they are. Do they worry and obsess? Likely not. They adapt. 

Though, in writing this, I know there are differences between mammals, cephalopods, and fish, and that mammals and cephalopods may think more deeply than a fish. But I speak, yet again, in generalities or else this post will become an entire book. 

We humans care about a lot. And some things we care about perhaps we should toss away—life would be easier and better, right?, if we did not care about every minutia? It is one thing to place expectations on our Selves—some that drive us forward to good and success and some that drive us to dark places—but to place these expectations onto others coming from our own perspectives, well, this is what often creates the turmoil of being human.

And, if we, or a loved one, has a brain gone rogue, we look to others, or our former selves, as comparison: why can’t I (or my loved one) be like I (they) was (were)? why am I (are they) not like everyone else? why is this happening to me (my loved one)? We flounder in the depths, drowning in our sorrow, grief, anger, frustration, perplexity. 

Life happens. Stuff happens. No one is immune to heartache or frustration. This is what living is: chaos with intervals of stillness; joy with intervals of sorrow; fullness with intervals of hunger.  

Humans have a hard time accepting what is different–and it is even more difficult when we experienced life before The Different arrived. We do not like change. I speak of “we” in generalities of course, since there are those who revel in it. Who make change. Who are excited by it. But even those who rush towards change can have limitations and biases toward change that is considered “intolerable;” things that make what is considered “normal” life uncomfortable.

In the Challenger Deep’s vast and unexplored depths there is silence and darkness and the unknown. In the challenger deep brain there is darkness and the unknown, but not so much the silence, as our brains can be loud. Our brains can at times seem to work against us, become this alien organ that we wonder, “Why, Brain? Why are you making me feel this way? Why are you doing this to my loved one? You are an asshole, Brain!” 

For example, to the complete frustration of my publishers and despite their encouragement that I’d “make a lot more money,” I cannot write plot-based or genre novels. Why? Because my brain does not work that way no matter how much I wish it could. And it is not just a matter of talent or desire or stubbornness. 

When I write, as I am doing now, everything comes out of the black hole and appears on the page. I cannot over-think it. I cannot plan it. I must only explore it by putting my fingers on the keys and blinkity tink tank tic, the story or post emerges. I did not plan this post. I had a vague idea or thought, and then I have to trust the process of my brain to explore the idea or thought. The challenger deep of my brain is as vast as The Challenger Deep of the ocean—from deep inside came my novels, my stories, my posts, my writing world that I stepped away from for so long.

In the 70s, I received a rather bad blow to the back of my head: is this when this strange brain began? I cannot tell you because I do not know when it began. The awareness of it only came much later in my life. A kind of “Wait a minute. This explains a lot…” though it explains not much at all. If I walk into a room, look around, leave, and immediately try to recall what the room looks like, I will only “see” a piece here, a piece there, and those pieces will quickly fade away. But, more puzzling, is if I now try to picture a room in my house, where I have lived many years, the same thing happens: I see a piece of my iron bed, now a piece of the horse painting over my bed, there is the mirror. There is the rug. And as quickly as I see the piece, it quickly is sucked back. 

But in comparison, take the case of Jason Padgett. Previously Jason was a happy go lucky fun-loving futon salesman. In 2002, after a night of karaoke, he left the bar, was savagely attacked, and hit in the back of the head. When he left the hospital, everything had changed. He saw the world differently: in a mathematical/geometrical way. The parietal cortex was set on fire from the blow to Jason’s head. He’s an artist, a mathematician. A genius, if you will.

We both received blows to the back of the head, we both saw a flash of bright, but with very different results. Of course, many blows to the back of the head turn out vastly worse: severe brain damage and/or death. Or for some, only a headache and nothing more.

Why did my portal open to a sucking black hole but Jason’s opened to a deeper understanding of every tiny geometrical shape? Why did not my blow to the back of my head make me a successful savant writer instead of a really good but often unfocused meandering writer? Jason sees things so very clearly while I see things in fuzzy pieces that fade in and out. Or perhaps my writing was enriched. Perhaps a portal opened for me as well and I have no way to compare the me before and after. Perhaps the way I experience my environment is a fascination. 

Jason has had his struggles, especially right after the attack. His OCD and fears overwhelmed him. Likely he still struggles with many issues, but he also received a beautiful gift. And he adapted. And now that I think about it, I have adapted too, with all my quirks and fears and frustrations, and my talents. 

It’s not like we can experiment by smacking people in the back of the head, and please do not try it—you know, the death or severe brain damage thing?

As explorers find ways to go deeper into the Challenger Deep, I feel both excited to see what will be discovered, but worried that there will be those who try to exploit what they do not understand. I would think Jason has been both celebrated and exploited. 

We do not always honor the beauties. We do not always protect the beauties.

Today’s Music: Surrender by Anima