Words

When I sat in middle school and they gave us Shakespeare. …roasted in wrath and fire, And thus o'er-sized with coagulate gore, I was completely confused and I felt stupid. 

 
Is somehow implicated in my ability to think about your thinking.

Committed to building a more just, verdant and
 
Committed. 

Much like a press of people at a door Throng her inventions, which shall go before. 

 
Yeah I’m trying to think that—I guess I, I don't think it's so simple that you could just go in and say hey I’m going to teach you ten signs today and now suddenly you're gonna have better cognitive capacity.

She would have these disparate thoughts and then stall out, like she couldn’t bring them together.

 However it worked, over time the signs of these fifty kids used,
 
Started to converge into common system.

And at that moment my right arm went totally paralyzed by my side.

 
I did not have that portion of my language center that tells a story curious little Jill, me, Jill Bolte Taylor climbing the Harvard ladder, through language, loves dissection, cutting up things, that language was gone.

Unearthly, unhand, undress, uneducated, ungoverned, unmitigated, unwillingness unpublished, something that’s near and dear to my heart.

Language is an ongoing information processing it's that constant reminder.

First hovering o’er the paper with her quill; Conceit and grief and eager combat fight; What wit sets down is blotted straight with will; This is too curious good, this blunt and ill. 

 
Well we don’t test them with food; we don’t test them with digging (R. laughing) so in superficial ways, superficial features of the studies are different.

These were fifty different kids who’d never learned a language and had fifty different sets of like rudimentary gestures that they used.

 
So this is a first cohort talking about
 
She got out her laptop and showed me some video.

 
When you drop out of the “I” ness of yourself or the story of yourself then you're left, she says at peace, I could argue that that's just stranded, that's stranded in the sunshine, with the wind in, in the now.

And it was the kind of pain, caustic pain that you get when you bite into ice cream.

My Stroke of Insight.

Unearthly, unhand, undress, uneducated, ungoverned, unmitigated, unwillingness unpublished, something that’s near and dear to my heart.

I think that he’s exaggerating the role of language here. 

I’m this, this organic entity.

And then all of a sudden left hemisphere comes back on-line and it says to me, “Hey! We’re having a stroke, we gotta get some help!”

Yes…
 
This all really hinges on how you would define thinking, and Liz would say take a musician, like I’ll give you my example Bill Evan

Here is a form of thought that carries you through a definite sequence of phrases, feelings, emotions, changes.

 
Head to foot Now is he total gules; horridly trick'd With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Baked and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and damned light To their lord's murder

This is Shakespeare. 

First hovering o’er the paper with her quill; Conceit and grief and eager combat fight; What wit sets down is blotted straight with will; This is too curious good, this blunt and ill. 

Committed to building a more just, verdant and
 
Committed. 

But language also seems to me to serve as a mechanism of communication between different systems within a single mind.

He, he wasn't willing to go through that tedious effort of all the miming anymore.

They infer this based on studying the rats.

He just collapsed and he started crying.

And I'm jamming away on this thing and I'm realizing that my hands look like primitive claws grasping onto the bar.

Just like someone took a remote control and pushed the mute button.

She would have these disparate thoughts and then stall out, like she couldn’t bring them together.

 
Good
 
Something happens at the ripe old age of six.

So for the next several hours I'd be pondering president.

First hovering o’er the paper with her quill; Conceit and grief and eager combat fight; What wit sets down is blotted straight with will; This is too curious good, this blunt and ill. 

So if you were this kid all you've really got our a couple of gestures, really crude gestures you've worked out to talk to your family and friends, but beyond that your cut off.

 
That was on of the sacrifices.

Is it Bolte or Bolt?

When I sat in middle school and they gave us Shakespeare. …roasted in wrath and fire, And thus o'er-sized with coagulate gore, I was completely confused and I felt stupid. 

 
Well they wanted to see, like, if you blasted the words out of somebody’s head
 
What would happen?

Just like someone took a remote control and pushed the mute button.

 
He is a Shakespeare scholar, obviously.

So it’s like okay I got a problem, but then I immediately drifted right back out. 

 
Cat. 
 
Cardinal.

 
But the school would include deaf people and that, says psychology professor Ann Senghas, was a first, because now instead of deaf kids scattered about, they were together, in the same room.

The kids are all screaming and leaning out the windows and signing to each other and the kids pile out and they line up in rows on the basketball court that’s in the center of the schoolyard.

And I'm jamming away on this thing and I'm realizing that my hands look like primitive claws grasping onto the bar.

First hovering o’er the paper with her quill; Conceit and grief and eager combat fight; What wit sets down is blotted straight with will; This is too curious good, this blunt and ill. 

 
Well I'm getting Ildefonso’s answer, which, when I saw him a couple of years later, after this incident, I asked him about his friends and he said he couldn't talk to them anymore.

 
Just kind of wandering down a random hallway.

And she's struggling to find words in which to do this and finally she picks up the pen and it go

She prepares to write.

I want to suggest that the central thread of all that is actually language, it’s a stream of inner speech. 

 
In fact a blood vessel in the left hemisphere of Jill’s brain had popped. 

 
In the late seventies Hope Simosa, who was the wife of the then dictator, established a new school for special education.