Currently thinking about the twists and turns of life; ruminating (attempting to reclaim the connotation of the word to be positive or perhaps neutral) on the uncanny idea that something so seemingly insignificant could have such an effect on a life.

We begin at a source of information, an event that is current, or recently occurred, and we trace our memory backward. The event is the acorn that dropped into our laps, and we look up to create the trajectory of it’s passed path, the past story of that acorn. We can see it move upwards at 9.82 meters per second per second, we watch it reattach itself onto the thin branch of the tree and see as the branches push the wind away from us, sucking our hair back into place. We turn one page back in On Having No Head and note that the tip of Harding’s nose is just visible along our field of vision.

The acorn sucks and shrinks down into itself, as if no one were watching, becoming a collection of bits that have potential, then hiding away inside the branch and running down the oak’s trunk; slowly being absorbed into the parent.

This story we can tell. Truth or derivative, we can tell it. We can hypothesize, we can deduce the past, we can watch and hope as moments unfold before us; however, the constant remains: there is an acorn in my lap.


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