Philosophical musings on a diverse variety of subjects.

"Chenango" is an old Indian word allegedly meaning "land of the bullthistle. Or so the traditional story has it. The bullthistle (Cirsium vulgare) is not native to North America; it was probably brought over from Europe. Nevertheless, we in Chenango County, New York, use it as our county logo. I am a Bullthistle Birder, a Bullthistle Botanizer, and a Bullthistle Hiker. With this blog I am now a Bullthistle Blogger.
For posts specific to Chenango County click these links.



Monday, July 18, 2011

Losing My Mind

Donald A. Windsor

I used to wonder; when people lose their minds -- how would they know?






The famous statement by Rene' Descartes, "I think, therefore I am", seems to apply as: Since I can no longer think, therefore, I am not.

But, it does not seem to work that way.  The thinking process remains functional (or so I think).  It is the storehouse of facts that disappear.  I reach for the name of someone or something, and it is simply not there.  It is as if I reached into my refrigerator for a bottle of milk and, to my surprise, did not find it.  Yet, I am sure I just bought one.

then, sometimes, often just after a few minutes, the fact appears, again to my surprise.  More puzzling is when it takes several days.  What goes on during this time?  Are my facts so buried in informational clutter, that it takes that long for my mind to find them?  Or does my brain lapse into a slow-motion mode?  I am 77 years old; have I accumulated too many facts for my inadequate mind to file and retrieve?

Facts and names disappear first.  Then the concepts disintegrate.  Mathematical operations seemed so logical when I first learned them; I never thought I would ever lose them.  But it has already happened.  Thus, some of my basic thought process has been eroded.

However, often to my astonishment, I am able to open a textbook for the first time in decades and go right to the place where what I am looking for is located.  Thus, my memory for the place I learned something persists longer than the memory of the thing itself.  This is why I love souvenirs; they help me to remember.  Souvenirs are my outsourced memory.