Phonological (sound of words) coding can help retrieve information. Before there was written language, stories were memorized and retold in rhyming verse. The activation of one line in a verse more easily triggers the next verse.
"I can't help what I did before I met you," he says, "and neither can you."
For me, there's nothing before him, nothing at all, but I know that's not the point. This is about him needing something from me. Not quite forgiveness, more like absolution, or maybe apathy. He needs me not to care about the things he's done.
"Ok," I say. "I won't be jealous anymore." It feels so generous, like I'm making a sacrifice for him. I've never felt so adult.
“Kötü bir anıyı unutmanın en iyi yolu güzel bir tanesiyle değişmektir.”
"First, I want to say sorry. I don't mean for falling in love with you, but for all the havoc that came with it. I lost... I lost myself often, and when I did, I wasn't me. I let myself fall into a dark hole, and every time I tried to get out, it got deeper. I should have listened to you and gotten help before things went as far as they did. Maybe I wouldn't be incarcerated in a mental institution for the rest of my life. Maybe I'd have a chance at a happy ending with you and our kids." He glances at Kade and Lu, the corner of his mouth tugging up. "But I can see how happy you all are, and that's enough for me. If Ewan is your forever, if he is the one who can show my children the right path in life, then I'm happy too."
These ten pounds are the first thing I notice when I wake up in the morning, the last thing I notice when my head hits the pillow at night, and the thing that I most often notice throughout the course of any given day. I’m obsessed with these ten pounds. Tortured by them. I don’t understand. Why won’t my body do what I want it to do? Why won’t bulimia help me out anymore? I thought we were friends. I thought bulimia had my back. Clearly it doesn’t. Clearly I had this whole relationship wrong. Yet I can’t seem to get out of it. I feel stuck to, enslaved by, codependent with my bulimia.
If anyone even asked what God would think about that, she always replied: "I don't think we agree about everything, but l have a feeling He knows I'm doing the best I can. And I think maybe He knows I work for Him, because I try to help people." If anyone asked her to sum up her view of the world, she always quoted Martin Luther: "Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.
Jim not that way Jim. That's no way to treat a garage door, bending stiffly down at the waist and yanking at the handle so the door jerks up and out jerky and hard and you crack your shins and my ruined knees, son. Let's see you bend at the healthy knees. Let's see you hook a soft hand lightly over the handle feeling its subtle grain and pull just as exactly gently as will make it come to you. Experiment, Jim. See just how much force you need to start the door easy, let it roll up out open on its hidden greasy rollers and pulleys in the ceiling's set of spiderwebbed beams. Think of all garage doors as the well-oiled open-out door of a broiler with hot meat in, heat roiling out, hot. Needless and dangerous ever to yank, pull, shove, thrust. Your mother is a shover and a thruster, son. She treats bodies outside herself without respect or due care. She's never learned that treating things in the gentlest most relaxed way is also treating them and your own body in the most efficient way. It's Marlon Brando's fault, Jim. Your mother back in California before you were born, before she became a devoted mother and long-suffering wife and breadwinner, son, your mother had a bit part in a Marlon Brando movie. Her big moment. Had to stand there in saddle shoes and bobby sox and ponytail and put her hands over her ears as really loud motorbikes roared by. A major thespian moment, believe you me. She was in love from afar with this fellow Marlon Brando, son. Who? Who. Jim, Marlon Brando was the archetypal new-type actor who ruined it looks like two whole generations' relations with their own bodies and the everyday objects and bodies around them. No? Well it was because of Brando you were opening that garage door like that, Jimbo. The disrespect gets learned and passed on. Passed
