I'm so far ahead of myself that I forget how far ahead I am. Ahead of what? Time, space, philosophizing, though my feeling of this is subjective and not substantive. My views to, my relationships to everything are personal and though meaningful to me, mostly, are less meaningful to others, if at all. And as you might have gathered, I like making my position, any position, as clear as possible. If and where I can.
thoughts won't be grasped you know, at least not in a way they can be
explained. It's like knowing the definition of a word and the
context it should be used, but being unable to formulate a
comprehensive sentence to explain that term or its usage to someone
else. I take information in, some say like a sponge, but I cannot for
the life of me pass it on when the moment arises. Not when it's
requested or could be volunteered, not when it could help some other
seeking knowledge. Knowledge that I already have, a short-cut to
wherever they want to eventually get to.
words die in my throat, tail off when I notice the uncomprehending
look in people's eyes: what is she blathering on about? Or worse
become a burble of mismatched words which don't go anywhere and leave
the enquirer no clearer, still, in fact, knowing nothing more than
where they started from. And if further questioned as to my
explanation, I'm liable to lose the plot, to um and er a lot and to
throw my hands up and out in uncontrolled gestures. My hands moving
of their own accord as if to divert people's attention: follow my
hands and not the words streaming from my mouth.
has ever fallen into a trance nor stopped listening to what I'm
issuing although the hands have been followed. It's a curious effect,
not even mildly hypnotic and yet even I, in the midst of talking, get
distracted by the other person's darting eyes, so that really all it
is does is confuse and make me painfully aware. My hands continue to
dance, as if they're separate from me, despite desperate attempts to
rein them in, and so in certain situations now, where improvised
gestures would be unforgivable I have to sit on them.
never asked what the other person sitting or standing opposite me
thinks of this shadow puppet show. I'm not sure I'd want to know. How
much notice do we take of other people's mannerisms, or even of our
own? Perhaps I'm unusual in that respect; self-centred, self-absorbed
even or just distressingly self-conscious.
much time to mull, I suspect. A writer's failing, not that I really
think of myself as a writer. I prefer not to categorise whatever this
is, this exploratory outpouring, except to know that if I didn't
allow a blank space for it I'd probably go mad; they'd be too many
thoughts and nuances running amok up here.
where? In the unsolvable maze of my mind whose hedgerows are
undefined. What once seemed to lead somewhere becomes a dead end;
what was once a cul-de-sac opens out. Its pattern changes on a
frequent basis, so that everything that appeared simple is complex
and anything anticipated to be complicated is simplex. It's akin to a
3D design, which if viewed on a lit screen, you can look at from
every conceivable angle, except the one in my mind runs to a
different, though not entirely incompatible, program to its host.
I've heard of independent thinking, but this is frankly bizarre. A
sure sign, though not the first, of madness or a contracted virus.
And some, it's true, is in a code I don't recognise until I locate
the Master Key to unlock that particular door, but for that you need
convergency and that rarely occurs when I want it to, least of all
when I deliberately give thought to a situation or a puzzling affair.
But then perhaps my analytical behaviour is too much of the kind
you'd ordinarily associate with a much younger person; my mind
lagging behind making that transition to full adulthood, and
therefore determined to raise uncertainties for me to ponder over,
such as where do we come from? where do we go back to? and could an
Angel have been flung from Space to take my place and erase my
Picture credit: Convergence, Jackson Pollock