BODY ELECTRIC PDF
The Body Electric. Undercurrents in Neurology. Conducting in a New Mode. Testing the Concept. 5. The Circuit of Awareness Closing the Circle. Full text of "The Body custom-speeches.com (PDFy mirror)" .. I'd already be- 32 The Body Electric gun to wonder if the inner area of bone mending might be a vestige of. The Body Electric (PDF) – Dr Robert O. Becker. ABOUT. EMF Research is an independent research resource into electromagnetic fields (EMF) for public.
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The Body Electric. Electromagnetism and the Foundation of Life. Home · The Body Electric. Electromagnetism and the Foundation of Life. Becker_Robert_Selden_Gary_The_Body_Electric_Electromagnetism_and_the_Foundation_of_Life .pdf (file size: MB, MIME type. 𝗣𝗗𝗙 | By , one can imagine a body-networked that can capture and retrieve everything man can hear, read and see. It could have as much memory and.
I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea. There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well,.
All things please the soul, but these please the soul well. A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,. It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,. I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,.
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable,. Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused,. Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,. Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice,.
The Body Electric - Micro-ondes
Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,. Undulating into the willing and yielding day,. This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman,.
This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again. Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest,.
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul. The female contains all qualities and tempers them,. She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,. She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.
As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty,. See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see. The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place,. He too is all qualities, he is action and power,. Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well,.
The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him,. The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul,. Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings every thing to the test of himself,. Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes soundings at last only here,. Where else does he strike soundings except here?
Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf? Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as much as you,. Each has his or her place in the procession. The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion. Do you know so much yourself that you call the meanest ignorant? Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no right to a sight? Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float, and the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegetation sprouts,.
For before the war I often go to the slave-mart and watch the sale,. I help the auctioneer, the sloven does not half know his business. Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for it,. For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one animal or plant,. Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in tendon and nerve,. Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition,.
Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, good-sized arms and legs,. The same old blood! There swells and jets a heart, there all passions, desires, reachings, aspirations,. This is not only one man, this the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns,.
In him the start of populous states and rich republics,. Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments. How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the centuries?
Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could trace back through the centuries? She too is not only herself, she is the teeming mother of mothers,. You cry and run to help, and laugh again when his first new bark comes out. Grandma turned, and there was my old kite strewn on the lawn. She recognized its problem. The ball of string's lost. You can't fly a kite that way.
We didn't: know what might happen. How could a robot grandma fly a kite for us? She raised up, the kite in her hands. And the kite flew. That is to say, with a grand flourish, she let it rip on the wind.
And she and the kite were one. For from the tip of her index finger there sprang a thin bright strand of spider web, all half- invisible gossamer fishline which, fixed to the kite, let it soar a hundred, no, three hundred, no, a thousand feet high on the summer swoons.
Timothy shouted. Agatha, torn between coming and going, let out a cry from the porch. And I, in all my maturity of thirteen years, though I tried not to look impressed, grew taller, taller, and felt a similar cry burst out my lungs, and burst it did.
I gabbled and yelled lots of things about how I wished I had a finger from which, on a bobbin, I might thread the sky, the clouds, a wild kite all in one. The kite sank up another thousand feet.
And again another thousand, until at last it was a speck of red confetti dancing on the very winds that took jets around the world or changed the weather in the next existence Liquid inside, like a spider. Hardens when it hits the air, instant thread O wise woman, to overcome with swift small angers.
Wait till I show my friends! I thought. Sour apple green is the color they'll turn!
Timothy and I jerked. Where was the echo coming from? Even Agatha, surprised, showed her eyebrows above the porch rail. Then we looked and saw. Grandma was cupping her hands like a seashell and from within that shell the echo sounded.
That is we two boys bent to hear. And ran in the house and slammed the doors. And that was the first day. And there was a second day, of course, and a third and a fourth, with Grandma wheeling in a great circle, and we her planets turning about the central light, with Agatha slowly, slowly coming in to join, to walk if not run with us, to listen if not hear, to watch if not see, to itch if not touch.
But at least by the end of the first ten days, Agatha no longer fled, but stood in nearby doors, or sat in distant chairs under trees, or if we went out for hikes, followed ten paces behind. And Grandma? She merely waited. She never tried to urge or force.
She went about her cooking and baking apricot pies and left foods carelessly here aid there about the house on mousetrap plates for wiggle-nosed girls to sniff and snitch. An hour later, the plates were empty, the buns or cakes gone and without thank you's, there was Agatha sliding down the banister, a mustache of crumbs on her lip.
As for Tim and me, we were always being called up hills by our Electric Grandma, and reaching the top were called down the other side.
And the most peculiar and beautiful and strange and lovely thing was the way she seemed to give complete attention to all of us. She listened, she really listened to all we said, she knew and remembered every syllable, word, sentence, punctuation, thought, and rambunctious idea.
We knew that all our days were stored in her, and that any time we felt we might want to know what we said at X hour at X second on X afternoon, we just named that X and with amiable promptitude, in the form of an aria if we wished, sung with humor, she would deliver forth X incident. Sometimes we were prompted to test her.
In the midst of babbling one day with high fevers about nothing, I stopped. I fixed Grandma with my eye and demanded: "What did I just say? A Chinese fortune cookie! I broke the cookie shell and pressed the warm curl of paper out to read: "—bicycle Champ of the whole West! What did I just say?
Come on, spit it out! The only Chinese fortune cookie that predicts the Immediate Past.
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Have another? And, laughing, we began to run. And that was another great thing. She could keep up. Never beat, never win a race, but pump right along in good style, which a boy doesn't mind. A girl ahead of him or beside him is too much to bear. But a girl one or two paces back is a respectful thing, and allowed.
So Grandma and I had some great runs, me in the lead, and both talking a mile a minute. But now I must tell you the best part of Grandma.
I might not: have known at all if Timothy hadn't taken some pictures, and if I hadn't taken some also, and then compared. When I saw the photographs developed out of our instant Brownies, I sent Agatha, against her wishes, to photograph Grandma a third time, unawares. Then I took the three sets of pictures off alone, to keep counsel with myself. I never told Timothy and Agatha what I found. I didn't want to spoil it. But, as I laid the pictures out in my room, here is what I thought and said: "Grandma, in each picture, looks different!
Just a sec—" I rearranged the photos. And, in it, Grandma looks like Jogging along with me, she looks like ugly me! The pictures fell to the floor. I hunched over, scrabbling them, rearranging, turning upside down and sidewise. Holy Goll again, yes! O that clever Grandmother. O those Fantoccini people-making people. Clever beyond clever, human beyond human, warm beyond warm, love beyond love And wordless, I rose and went downstairs and found Agatha and Grandma in the same room, doing algebra lessons in an almost peaceful communion.
At least there was not outright war. Grandma was still waiting for Agatha to come round. And no one knew what day of what year that would be, or how to make it come faster. Meanwhile— My entering the room made Grandma turn. I watched her face slowly as it recognized me.
And wasn't there the merest ink-wash change of color in those eyes? Didn't the thin film of blood beneath the translucent skin, or whatever liquid they put to pulse and beat in the humanoid forms, didn't it flourish itself suddenly bright in her cheeks and mouth?
I am somewhat ruddy. Didn't Grandma suffuse herself more to my color upon my arrival? And her eyes? More important than that, in the moments as she talked with me, saying, "Good evening," and "How's your homework, my lad?
For let's face it, our family is of three sorts. Agatha has the long horse bones of a small English girl who will grow to hunt foxes; Father's equine stare, snort, stomp, and assemblage of skeleton. The skull and teeth are pure English, or as pure as the motley isle's history allows.
Timothy is something else, a touch of Italian from mother's side a generation back. Her family name was Mariano, so Tim has that dark thing firing him, and a small bone structure, and eyes that will one day burn ladies to the ground. As for me, I am the Slav, and we can only figure this from my paternal grandfather's mother who came from Vienna and brought a set of cheekbones that flared, and temples from which you might dip wine, and a kind of steppeland thrust of nose which sniffed more of Tartar than of Tartan, hiding behind the family name.
So you see it became fascinating for me to watch and try to catch Grandma as she performed her changes, speaking to Agatha and melting her cheekbones to the horse, speaking to Timothy and growing as delicate as a Florentine raven pecking glibly at the air, speaking to me and fusing the hidden plastic stuffs, so I felt Catherine the Great stood there before me.
Now, how the Fantoccini people achieved this rare and subtle transformation I shall never know, nor ask, nor wish to find out. Enough that in each quiet motion, turning here, bending there, affixing her gaze, her secret segments, sections, the abutment of her nose, the sculptured chinbone, the wax-tallow plastic metal forever warmed and was forever susceptible of loving change. Hers was a mask that was all mask but only one face for one person at a time.
So in crossing a room, having touched one child, on the way, beneath the skin, the wondrous shift went on, and by the time she reached the next child, why, true mother of that child she was! And when all three of us were present and chattering at the same time? Well, then, the changes were miraculously soft, small, and mysterious. Nothing so tremendous as to be caught and noted, save by this older boy, myself, who, watching, became elated arid admiring and entranced.
I have never wished to be behind the magician's scenes. Enough that the illusion works. Enough that love is the chemical result. Enough that cheeks are rubbed to happy color, eyes sparked to illumination, arms opened to accept and softly bind and hold All of us, that is, except Agatha who refused to the bitter last.
Even Agatha didn't mind, but pretended to mind. It gave her a pleasant sense of superiority over a supposedly superior machine. I am quite flawed, and on names my flaws are revealed. Tom there, is Tim half the time. Timothy is Tobias or Timulty as likely as not Which made Grandma make one of her rare mistakes. She put out her hand to give my sister the merest pat.
Agatha-Abigail-Alice leapt to her feet. It's obvious, the more Agatha likes Grandma, the more she hates herself for liking her, the more afraid she gets of the whole mess, the more she hates Grandma in the end. Of course. I guess you hate people when they make you feel naked, I mean sort of on the spot or out in the open. That's the way to play the game, of course. I mean, you don't just love people you must love them with exclamation points.
What dinners there were at our house! Dinners, heck; what lunches, what breakfasts! Always something new, yet, wisely, it looked or seemed old and familiar. We were never asked, for if you ask children what they want, they do not know, and if you tell what's to be delivered, they reject delivery. All parents know this. It is a quiet war that must be won each day.
And Grandma knew how to win without looking triumphant. Brush your teeth after or you'll taste the poison all afternoon. Even Abigail-Agamemnon-Agatha drew near and circled round the table at such times, while Father put on the ten pounds he needed and pinkened out his cheeks. When A. Agatha did not come to meals, they were left by her door with a skull and crossbones on a small flag stuck in a baked apple. One minute the tray was abandoned, the next minute gone. Other times Abigail A.
Agatha would bird through during dinner, snatch crumbs from her plate and bird off. It's a matter of time. We must wait for her to find that her fears have no foundation. If I fail, well, I will send myself to the showers and rust quietly. Agatha was hiding in the hall. Grandma finished serving everyone and then sat at the other side of the table facing Father and pretended to eat. I never found out, I never asked, I never wanted to know, what she did with the food.
She was a sorcerer. It simply vanished. And in the vanishing, Father made comment: "This food. I've had it before. Grandma took his regard, and ours, and held them simply in her now empty hands, as gifts, and just as gently replied: "I am given things which I then give to you.
I don't know that I give, but the giving goes on. You ask what I am? Why, a machine. But even in that answer we know, don't we, more than a machine. I am all the people who thought of me and planned me and built me and set me running. So I am people. I am all the things they wanted to be and perhaps could not be, so they built a great child, a wondrous toy to represent those things.
Machines were bad, evil, they might dehumanize—" "Some machines do. It's all in the way they are built. It's all in the way they are used. A bear trap is a simple machine that catches and holds and tears.
A rifle is a machine that wounds and kills. Well, I am no bear trap. I am no rifle. I am a grandmother machine, which means more than a machine. It follows, then, that any machine that embodies an idea is larger than the man that made it. And what's so wrong with that? Let me put it this way. Men throw huge shadows on the lawn, don't they? Then, all their lives, they try to run to fit the shadows. But the shadows are always longer.
Only at noon can a man fit his own shoes, his own best suit, for a few brief minutes. But now we're in a new age where we can think up a Big Idea and run it around in a machine.
That makes the machine- more than a machine, doesn't it? It's a thing that dreams, isn't it? Sometimes fine happy dreams, sometimes nightmares.
The Body Electric. Electromagnetism and the Foundation of Life
But to call it a machine and dismiss it is ridiculous. Man will never fly. The earth is flat, you'll fall off the rim, dragons will dine on you; the great lie told as fact, and Columbus plowed it under.
Well, now, how many times have you heard how inhuman machines are, in your life? How many bright fine people have you heard spouting the same tired truths which are in reality lies; all machines destroy, all machines are cold, thoughtless, awful. But only a seed. Guido Fantoccini knew that. And knowing it, like most men of his kind, made him mad. And he could have stayed mad and gone mad forever, but instead did what he had to do; he began to invent machines to give the lie to the ancient lying truth.
But by the way you built and shaped them you in turn shaped men, women, and children to be bad or good. A car, for instance, dead brute, unthinking, an unprogrammed bulk, is the greatest destroyer of souls in history. It makes boy-men greedy for power, destruction, and more destruction. It was never intended to do that. But that's how it turned out. Machines that throw shadows on the earth that beckon you to run out and fit that wondrous casting-forth.
Machines that trim your soul in silhouette like a vast pair of beautiful shears, snipping away the rude brambles, the dire horns and hooves to leave a finer profile. And for that you need examples.
And if you act well enough long enough all the hair drops off and you're no longer a wicked ape. They set the grand good style. Grandma didn't even turn in the direction of the voice, but went on calmly addressing her remarks to the family at the table. But this I do know: being mechanical, I cannot sin, cannot be bribed, cannot be greedy or jealous or mean or small. I do not relish power for power's sake. Speed does not pull me to madness.
Sex does not run me rampant through the world. I have time and more than time to collect the information I need around and about an ideal to keep it clean and whole and intact. Name the value you wish, tell me the Ideal you want and I can see and collect and remember the good that: will benefit you all. Tell me how you would like to be: kind, loving, considerate, well-balanced, humane In the darkness ahead, turn me as a lamp in all directions.
I can guide your feet. He gathered his breath. His face shadowed. At last he let it out. The Molecular Vision of Life: Body embodiment: Symbolic Interaction And the Sociology of the Body. The Foundation of the Path.
The foundation of the community. Edison and the Electric Chair. Blueprint for Immortality: The Electric Patterns of Life. Light of the Body. Recommend Documents.Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice,. Tell the sky what color it must be, and it was indeed. Liquid inside, like a spider.
She listened, she really listened to all we said, she knew and remembered every syllable, word, sentence, punctuation, thought, and rambunctious idea. The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account,.
Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in tendon and nerve,. We must wait for her to find that her fears have no foundation.
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