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I have not had a butterfly brain my entire life, of that I'm quite sure. It began . . . well, some little time ago, I can't tell you how long ago, precisely because I have a butterfly brain. But it's been cocooning for a while and is now emerging, full-blown and superbly colourful, to affect every aspect of my life.
Last week I was getting a head cold. Its onset was slow and subtle, and I wasn't always aware of it. I was standing beside the kitchen counter and I remembered (not for the first time) that I wanted to begin using my neti pot to forestall the cold.
I moved, for some forgotten purpose that was important at the time, the three steps across the kitchen to the sink. And there I thought: what was that idea I just had? For my mind was a complete blank. The term "neti pot" was gone, along with the entire thread that had led me to it. Often, when we forget something we can retrace our mind's steps, the inconsequential interior monologue that preceded and followed the forgotten idea. This did not happen. "Usual" it might have been once, but the blankness that filled my brain was telling me that a new normal was on its way.
We have all seen butterflies on the move. One wonders, watching their flight, how they ever make it down to Mexico for their winter vacation. Two wing-beats forward, two more off to the right, two up, two down, two backwards, then three forward. Net gain: six inches. We have to assume an evolutionary advantage to this flight pattern: by its unpredictable movements the butterfly obviously foils all predators. If a deer moved that way, no hunter would ever fell a deer!
For a butterfly, this erratic motion makes sense. But for a brain? For a brain it is less than efficient. My brain now, in this new normal, has the hint of an idea. But before I can even look at it, the brain has moved on—two wing-beats below, two wing-beats to the left—and I have no inkling at all what I was going to say.
Conversation often consists of slight, friendly interruptions, and in olden days that was fine. If an interruption disrupted my thought-line, I would just come back to it later. Now, however, an interruption means the destruction of any previous idea. It is gone forever. Not that that is a major loss to civilization, but I find it personally annoying. Not to mention terrifying.
In the particular case of the neti pot, here's what happened. My mind a blank, as I said, I then moved to the far side of the stove for some purpose, and from that position the words "neti pot" popped into my head. The blank brain had re-booted itself. I began reciting "neti pot, neti pot, neti pot" as I raced to the counter where this had all started, grabbed pen and paper, and printed out "neti pot" in bold letters.
Writing it down is the only answer.
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