The Kimota Anthology by Steve Lockley, Stephen Gallagher, Neal Asher, Stephen Laws, Mark Chadbourn, Mark Morris, Paul Finch, William Meikle, Peter Crowther, Graeme Hurry Page B
Authors: Steve Lockley, Stephen Gallagher, Neal Asher, Stephen Laws, Mark Chadbourn, Mark Morris, Paul Finch, William Meikle, Peter Crowther, Graeme Hurry
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ungraspable wiring! I slice away carefully as the brain sits in the bowl, through occipital lobe, parietal and frontal lobes. The offending parts float off in a swirling mixture of fluid and blood, but there is still space in the bowl for me to work and to see that I have reached the crucial areas. I am down to the thalamus, hypothalamus, the cerebellum and reticular formation. Most importantly, undamaged , is the mass of neurones of the amygdala nestling within the temporal lobe.
It takes one of flexible attributes and forward thinking to accept the importance of the archaic amygdala. Primitive though this early brain is considered, let us not underestimate how powerfully it controls the mouth, the tongue, and the teeth. How dismissive it is of the eyes and the wiring and all extraneous thoughts. The emotion of the mouth is its sole purpose.
Lifting the precious groupings of the remaining brain, I find, delightfully, that the fit into Uncle’s skull is as near perfect as it possibly can be. His mouth almost moves as I insert the brain into the cavity, and I sense the anticipation waiting there. The teeth snap together satisfactorily: His or mine I’m not sure, perhaps both! Quickly I replace the skullcap and I use fake skin and cauterise and seal the seam with a small soldering tool. Uncle is bald, but that will not be for very long. The smell of singed plastic is pungent and choking, making the mouth display its distaste, but I am not about to allow a bit of discomfort to spoil this illustrious moment.
Gently, with the reverence he deserves, I lift Uncle from the makeshift operating table. He is so frail and light! And yet so uncomplaining -- there was, after all, no anaesthetic administered for his operation!
I am drained, almost exhausted by the evening’s work, but determined that my perseverance will bear fruit before the night is through. It cannot wait. Sitting in the big armchair by the fireplace, I allow Uncle to rest upon my lap. His legs dangle so limply. He too is exhausted.
Very gently, very kindly, I say to him, “How do you feel, Uncle Charlie?” The mouth knows how to behave in such a delicate situation. “Would you like something to drink?” I ask. I know he must be thirsty after such a lengthy wait.
The fire has gone out while I’ve been at the hospital and the room has turned chilly. Still, that can be attended to in a moment and Charlie can sit next to me in the chair and we can discuss plans for our future entertainment long into the night. Explore routines and engage in dialogue.
I wait.
The mouth is set, fixed, worried about Charlie’s continuing silence, his failure to answer my questions. Yet.., yet I know he will answer me, that he is about to reply. I must give him a little more time. It was a major operation after all. The amygdala must be allowed to recover itself. I try to change my expression while I wait, but the mouth will not let me. Sardonically, it is frozen and I know this is how it must remain -- upper row of teeth a fraction exposed, resting on a slightly withdrawn lower lip, a little half-smile -- in order to allow Uncle to respond properly.
Now it’s coming!
Now ...
I can’t move for the intense anticipation that is inside me, twisting my innards. The mouth holds me motionless, staring. I wait as seconds tick audibly from the face of the mantle clock.
But...
Something’s wrong. There is something wrong!
The brain, the brain is faulty! The amygdala must be retarded. I am aware of this because of the way the words are going to be spoken. Imbecilic is the term! But how could I have foreseen that the brain became damaged before I got to it? That it was, in fact, the brain of a retard! Even as the last second ticks, I realise with bitter disappointment that Imust begin all over again. Despite the truth of this, the mouth will not end its actions and salve my agony and frustration! It insists on allowing Charlie to respond.
Which he does. Determined to answer my
It takes one of flexible attributes and forward thinking to accept the importance of the archaic amygdala. Primitive though this early brain is considered, let us not underestimate how powerfully it controls the mouth, the tongue, and the teeth. How dismissive it is of the eyes and the wiring and all extraneous thoughts. The emotion of the mouth is its sole purpose.
Lifting the precious groupings of the remaining brain, I find, delightfully, that the fit into Uncle’s skull is as near perfect as it possibly can be. His mouth almost moves as I insert the brain into the cavity, and I sense the anticipation waiting there. The teeth snap together satisfactorily: His or mine I’m not sure, perhaps both! Quickly I replace the skullcap and I use fake skin and cauterise and seal the seam with a small soldering tool. Uncle is bald, but that will not be for very long. The smell of singed plastic is pungent and choking, making the mouth display its distaste, but I am not about to allow a bit of discomfort to spoil this illustrious moment.
Gently, with the reverence he deserves, I lift Uncle from the makeshift operating table. He is so frail and light! And yet so uncomplaining -- there was, after all, no anaesthetic administered for his operation!
I am drained, almost exhausted by the evening’s work, but determined that my perseverance will bear fruit before the night is through. It cannot wait. Sitting in the big armchair by the fireplace, I allow Uncle to rest upon my lap. His legs dangle so limply. He too is exhausted.
Very gently, very kindly, I say to him, “How do you feel, Uncle Charlie?” The mouth knows how to behave in such a delicate situation. “Would you like something to drink?” I ask. I know he must be thirsty after such a lengthy wait.
The fire has gone out while I’ve been at the hospital and the room has turned chilly. Still, that can be attended to in a moment and Charlie can sit next to me in the chair and we can discuss plans for our future entertainment long into the night. Explore routines and engage in dialogue.
I wait.
The mouth is set, fixed, worried about Charlie’s continuing silence, his failure to answer my questions. Yet.., yet I know he will answer me, that he is about to reply. I must give him a little more time. It was a major operation after all. The amygdala must be allowed to recover itself. I try to change my expression while I wait, but the mouth will not let me. Sardonically, it is frozen and I know this is how it must remain -- upper row of teeth a fraction exposed, resting on a slightly withdrawn lower lip, a little half-smile -- in order to allow Uncle to respond properly.
Now it’s coming!
Now ...
I can’t move for the intense anticipation that is inside me, twisting my innards. The mouth holds me motionless, staring. I wait as seconds tick audibly from the face of the mantle clock.
But...
Something’s wrong. There is something wrong!
The brain, the brain is faulty! The amygdala must be retarded. I am aware of this because of the way the words are going to be spoken. Imbecilic is the term! But how could I have foreseen that the brain became damaged before I got to it? That it was, in fact, the brain of a retard! Even as the last second ticks, I realise with bitter disappointment that Imust begin all over again. Despite the truth of this, the mouth will not end its actions and salve my agony and frustration! It insists on allowing Charlie to respond.
Which he does. Determined to answer my
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