The full transcript of questions on neuroscience, creativity, and art with Dr. Mandy Wintink. This appeared in the October issue of The Dream Room newsletter.
Read MoreI just couldn’t take it anymore. All the noise. I used to love living right downtown, right in the middle of everything. Not anymore.
Sure, I chose to live right beside a set of train tracks, but I thought I’d get used to it. I had gotten used to it and then I didn’t. There were more of them, the trains. Every seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Even with the door closed.
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Given my chosen field of professionalism, you would have assumed that I had a visual imagination. This seems to work in overdrive for most of my waking life. Yet, I have no access to an active dream world. I rarely, if ever, dream. And if I do, I rarely, if ever, remember them.
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Hanging out the door of a ratty plane, the plane held together by duct tape, my eyes staring at the earth 10,000 feet away through heavy clouds — from up here, yes, I could ascertain that the world was most definitely flat. And solid. What kind of damage occurs to the physical body when it hurtles hundreds of kilometres per hour and slams into this unyielding ball of mass? This was wholly unnatural and diametrically opposed to any instinctual notion of my usually highly sensitive idiosyncratic perception of self-preservation.
Unnatural.
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