On a Cellular Level

Dedicated to a neuroscientist who I slept with one summer long ago.

Micro

They meet. Two cells meet. Deep in the butter-soft matter of the brain, inside the cathedral of the skull. They float, the tips of the tendrils of their dendritic trees enmeshing. A purkinje cell and a climbing fibre. The stuff of which thought and belief and intention is formed. At once there is electricity between them. Innervation. An excitatory impulse as old as consciousness. They meet. There is a kind of communication here. An elemental, chemical thing. They intertwine and kiss their surfaces together. Wrap themselves so tightly around one another that they fuse, become something new altogether. Serotonin squirts. Synapses crackle. They shiver in their conclusion.

Meso

They meet. Two creatures meet. Deep in the forest, in the swallowing silence that precedes civilisation. They eye one another warily. Beasts of fur and claw. Scurrying, desperate things, clinging to life in a world that is to them brief and violent. At once there is electricity between them. Excitement. An excitatory impulse as old as consciousness. They stalk closer. They meet. There is a kind of communication here. A thing of scents and movements, hesitancy, fear. They intertwine lithe, battle-scarred bodies. Twist themselves together, clumsily, fumblingly. An urgent instinct. In the throes of their mating they nip and bite. The sound of them rutting in the dark is high and quiet, stifled lest they attract larger predators. The brief spurt of ecstasy confuses them – it is beyond their understanding. They shiver in their conclusion.

Macro

They meet. Two people meet. In a bar, their bodies infused with alcohol and their brains quiet and dizzy. Surrounded by a mesh of noise and bodies. They eye one another warily. At once there is electricity between them. An excitatory impulse as old as consciousness. Their bodies touch, in a manner that could at first be accidental, but isn’t. They are tentative and then they are not. It is too loud to speak, but there is a kind of communication here all the same. A thing of movements and codes. A routine that both have learned their part in through trial and error and media and community. Through their hive. Later, outside, they intertwine bodies, lock mouths. Serotonin squirts. Impulses rise like boiling water. They twist themselves together, clumsily, fumblingly. In the throes of their mating they nip and bite. Pull at clothes. Each curates a set of blurred impressions: new synapses form. New memories are filed away. They cry out. No language. Animal, urgent vocalisations. They shiver in their conclusion.