Windbag

Wed. Oct. 17, 2012. I always start my morning writing with the date. It keeps me grounded. My mind tends to move like a breeze from one updraft to the next. Wouldn’t that be fun, Wispy Chris floating on the wind, moving not by a clock that pushes me from one have-to to the next?

Time: a manufactured force of human design. Like wind you can’t see it, but it moves. The minutes do roll by; you can count them if you’re anal, but it’s a man-made device, a tool of control. I live in fear of losing track, being late. What would life be without that little torture device?

I sit in the mornings (if I’m fortunate) and read my daily devotional, write my prayers, listen to the birdsong, and write some pages of thoughts. It’s a natural ordering of my mind not governed by a mechanical device that is mathematically correct. Math and I struggle. Numbers are transposed, formulas disseminate in a mind unable to memorize.

Memory: the mental ability to retain strings of information. Wispy Chris floats over this definition. She sees the words, hears the sound, then a bright light and her mind moves to an alternate universe, one that doesn’t think in linear fashion. The phone rings – crap, what time is it? The world calls. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.  

Hyperbola: the set of points in a plane whose distances to two fixed points in the plane have a constant difference; a curve consisting of two distinct and similar branches.... yada, yada, yada. Have you ever seen one of those wind whirligigs that twists in a circle with a breeze? The equation for a hyperbola: x² /a^{2 –} y² /a²  = my mind