I love it when a plan comes together.
John “Hannibal” Smith
We all love it when things just “click.” When, after staring at a puzzle for an eternity with no signs of progress, the solution suddenly becomes obvious. We call it a “breakthrough,” an “epiphany,” a “eureka moment” that might even make us shout aloud. We want to make noise because we want someone to rush in from the other room, desperate to learn the hidden truth we’ve uncovered. Fortunately, most of us are too humble to think we need an audience for our Sudoku solution, our crossword conquest, our Wordle win. That rush of satisfaction is easy to feel, but hard to share. But if we could explain it to someone else, maybe it would provoke that same feeling. If we could keep finding a fresh audience, maybe we prolong the feeling indefinitely. Maybe we could keep drinking the same brain juice.
When I first saw “brain juice” pop up online it gave me exactly this feeling of satisfaction. It is an elegant term for the pop-science understanding of how the squishy organ in our skulls is responsible for our emotions. I like the word “juice” for this because it sounds as messy and childish as my understanding of how the brain functions. I am enough of a nerd that I might be willing to skim a research paper, but when I see the word “dopamine” used to explain something on the internet I just shrug. I know enough to spot when someone is waving a wand at neuroscience and hoping something useful pops out of the hat. I am not going to make guesses about how neurochemistry is responsible for the personal and social influence of bootleg brain juice. No, I am going to be providing anecdotes, personal exposition, and some uninformed conjecture. “Brain juice” is exactly as scientific as it sounds.
I also like the word “juice” because it makes me think of sugary fruit drinks. Apple, grape, orange – you’ve heard of these. I’m not talking about an energy drink or nutritional supplement that claims it can magically prevent altzheimers while giving you an extra pep in your step. Plain old fruit juices combine instant gratification with a vague promise of health benefits. Puzzles are the same: come for the sweet solution, stay for the dubious claims of general intelligence gains. We desire the taste, but we say it’s good for us. That’s an adult’s rationalization of a child’s impulse. At least, it is for me, and I am forced to face that fact because of how my body reacts to brain juice.
One of my earliest childhood memories is of brain juice. I’m sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce on the carpet in the reading area of my fourth grade classroom. A long, low bookshelf separates this corner from the desk area. It’s a cozy environment for a lesson, so I’m already feeling good even though the topic is tough: fractions. Teacher Annie is giving each of us a turn at the whiteboard to try adding them or something. I probably had seen fractions before, but this is the day I remember. This is the moment it clicked. I don’t know what the numbers were, but I suddenly understood their purpose, that they were useful, not just another thing I had to learn because school expected it. The pieces came together. It felt good. It felt very good. It wasn’t pride, or satisfaction, or joy. It was a unique physical sensation. It rushed through my brain, sent a little shiver down my spine, and made my pulse rush. Fractions did this.
Now, before you go saying “this creep is horny for math,” keep in mind that I was like nine years old, so it is you who is the creep for thinking that. And it’s not just math; throughout my life all kinds of miniature epiphanies have triggered this sensation. For a long time I assumed it was a universal experience—as I said above, everyone loves these moments. However, while the feeling of pleasure is common, I’ve come to realize my particular physical experience is not. It is similar to ASMR: we all can feel tickling, or enjoy soft whispers, but not everyone feels a “low-grade euphoria” from it. The sensation is equally hard to explain.
Writing about this experience is an embarrassing task, like trying to describe why a song from your sophomore year in high school makes you cry. But I had to explain myself before I got to the real subjects of this piece: gurus, internet philosophers, and other connoisseurs of brain juice. This low-grade euphoria is the reason I empathize with them, even as I find them completely intolerable.
I don’t remember my elementary school teacher ever again dropping knowledge on me that was as potent as potent as those fractions. I was lucky to have a lot of good teachers all the way through college, but none of them ever had the perfect recipe for delivering an epiphany in every lesson. Certain topics are more mind-blowing than others; most require a long, drawn-out setup before the punchline hits. Once or twice a semester would be a fantastic rate—I selected subjects where this seemed feasible. When there were long gaps between breakthroughs I would become frustrated. No one likes to plateau, and anxiety about grades or competition could crop up, but even success could be dissatisfying. Having a mentor’s guidance was almost more important when progress was steady, but boring.
A really great teacher is one who can supply the brain juice, but also helps you through the tough stuff. A “guru” just helps you chase the high.
Harmless Writing 