I’ve been thinking quite a bit recently about brains. Not perhaps in the Dr. Frankenstein sense of needing to collect some for a pet project, but still with a nod to my own mortality. In some sense that’s due to getting older and especially watching my parents get older and wondering what the future holds when my mind remains intact but my body can no longer respond to the mind’s commands. But perhaps I’ll be fortunate and the mind will go first.
Regardless, I’ve been thinking regularly about the thinks I think because that patterning and association that goes on inside the head of myself and others is interesting to me. I think differently than many people – that is, I process information differently. My trains of thought are usually more grasshoppers than trains in the usual sense. There may be an anticipatable trajectory or arc to them, but they change direction frequently and unexpectedly to those outsiders attempting to catch up or catch on. Or perhaps they are more like teleporting insects of another type, that flit from here to there with no expected or regular results. I occasionally wander around inside my own head, become bewildered and lost, and have to retrace my steps to figure out how I got here. So far, I’ve always managed to find my way back out.
But are the thinks I think unique? Probably not. I would like to imagine that the stories I tell myself are ‘irrepeatable’ and will never again be known in this world. Language makes that unlikely however in that the words we use – in conversation, in written correspondence, in any spanning of that gap between two distinct minds – are all based on some sort of commonly accepted understanding of meaning. And despite the fact that a gap of some sort remains – I am not you, and you will never be me – there is no certainty that as individuals, we are all so different from one another that I would not be at home if I could in some way merge myself into your thoughts.
This scares me. I may be a unique snowflake, but the idea that the other snowflakes in this blizzard of humanity are equally unique and equally worthy in some way disrupts my independent pride. The idea that I may have my own mind-self looking out from behind different eyes but thinking around the same sorts of well worn concepts and diligently pursuing the same formulaic ‘answers’ is depressing. True, I may have new perspective or insight into a number of the great questions. But is perspective enough? Or do I want to be special enough to find my own new question?
Or perhaps there is nothing deeper for me to dig into unless I want to make a really big hole. Perhaps I would be better off focusing on the path I’m taking, embracing the journey to find the same answers to the same questions once again. Perhaps it is enough to identify, trace, preserve and make beautiful those still-shot images I recognized as some higher plane of Life through the words I use to bridge that emptiness between minds. Perhaps writing as a craft is enough to give voice to the rambles undertaken by my ‘self’ due to unique neuron firing, genetic makeup, physical and environmental impacts, magnetic energies or lesser forces.
Or perhaps I demand something iconic that is my own. Something more.