RaggedyAndroid

I just watched a movie that activated my brain on many levels. The problem with this is that I want to do something with it. I do not know what. And so, I begin my internal monologues. The worst part of it- well it’s not the worst part, I’ll tell you the worst part later- is that I am always in my car, alone, not even with a little recorder, or a parrot with perfect recall. My thoughts come rapidly and flow seamlessly into one another, covering topics in rapid succession. And from time to time I step outside, part of me does, and I am somewhat interested by what I hear. Isn’t that a good sign? I suppose I’d be pretty bummed if I bored myself.

And so we are back to me now, hypermental and searching for an outlet. Since I have no recorder, I’ll try to remember my thoughts and write them down when I get home. And I get home. I am home now. My significant other saw the movie with me and is also motivated by some great force of media. He asks me, “Do you want to play City of Heroes?” The first thing that comes to my mind is that playing a video game would be the biggest waste of creative energy that I can conceive. “No I don’t.” “What do you want to do?” I have no idea. I am without focus, only energy. I am a force without distance, so work does not result. And so I say, “I don’t know.” He gives me that look of how-can-you-not-want-to-do-something. “Tell me if you want to do something.” I say, “I’m hyper. I think I’m going to type.” And he gives me that look of I-don’t-get-you-at-all-why-do-I-bother. I feel put out and my energy wanes. And then it becomes a gender issue… again. “I don’t get women. When a guy is hyper, he wants to do something. When a woman is hyper, she just wants to talk about it. If you’re hyper, we should do something. It’s like if you’re inspired, you should write.” And I say, “But that’s what I’m going to do.” He gets quite exasperated and I wonder what cryptic thing I’ve done now that is causing him distress.

And so- I like starting phrases with that- my bullet train of thought came to a stop and is under construction while I dwell on my behavior and his response. But can’t you see? If I were inspired to write, it would ok. But since I’m just typing my thoughts, I’m elusive. And so I ask, “What do you want to do?” I have to at least show him that ambiguity is not solely my problem. “I don’t know. Fight crime, I suppose.” “Exactly,” I say.

And so I am typing, ever so much like an indecisive and unproductive member of the incomprehensible female persuasion, and he is combating digital monsters. I am not trying to be angry. Instead, I am using my cranial verbosity as a channel. I no longer remember most of what I wanted to write here while driving home from the cinema, but at least I won’t be pissed off when I’m done.

Batman Begins is a good movie. Just make sure you have lots of activities planned for afterwards or you might get into a fight with your date because there aren’t any bad guys around on whom to take it out. I’d suggest we duke it out, but he’s had a lot more martial arts training than me. And I don’t think we’d mean it.

We talked about yearbooks today.

That previous statement is not like some stand-up comic preparing for a joke. “I was driving to the show tonight and…” Same joke every night. That funny thing sure happens a lot. I would think it wouldn’t be funny after a while.

Anyway, we *were* talking about yearbooks today. I was at a house-warming party. It is June is most of use are 28. Which means, we graduated from high school exactly ten years ago. Which means now is as good of a time as any to bring up high school.

My friend had said something like, “Everyone wrote stuff in my yearbook saying that I was crazy or that I was sweet.” That seems apropos. He is a kooky and extra-friendly guy. Someone else made a Buffy reference,” You did it too! ‘Have a nice summer.’”

It’s bizarre how one-dimensional it all is. People wrote the same crap in my yearbook as well. They wrote, “You are funny”, which is true for the most part. They also wrote,” You are weird,” of which I took great pride at the time, and though I’ve matured since then, I take mild pride in it now, since I certainly did not want to fit in with any of the people who would call be “weird”. They also wrote, “You are smart.” I’d like to think that still applies, but I don’t get to see it anymore.

I was successful at school. After seven-point-five years of crap jobs, I do not feel smart. I do not feel challenged. I do not feel intellectual. I have been inundated with ignorance and squelched by small people with bigger paychecks. My brother likes to sneer and mention how poor my grammar has become.

I cannot focus when conversions become intellectual. My growing number of friends with master’s degrees and doctorates start to chat, and my mind goes entirely numb. I stare at them and feel awkward, mediocre. And at the same time, I feel as though I really don’t care about what they are saying. Is that a defense mechanism to protect me from my inferiority? Why should I care about mineral counts in water samples? Why should I care about a root canal? Ok. It feels acceptable to not be interested in those things; they are very specialized.

But how can I rationalize my vacancy during conversations that do interest me? Someone starts speaking about her psychological studies. That interests me and so I want to hear what she have to say. But then other folk start interjecting, as if they already know all about it. What do they know? Why do they know? Literature, politics, philosophy. I hardly read, and I certainly don’t read works with intellectual credit. I don’t follow politics, and I don’t feel strongly about them unless I’m being screwed. Philosophy is very difficult for me; I know if I agree with something and I know if I don’t. That doesn’t make for conversation. I can defend or counter, but folks aren’t interested it that part of it. When a person states a philosophy, they seem to want you just to say something entirely new and different back. I want to explain why I think what they said was right or wrong, but they don’t care about that.

I am all about the why. Why is this so? Why isn’t it? People want to spew truths into the air like flowers, attractive and impressive. But if someone would just think enough to add some roots to their truths, they wouldn’t wilt so rapidly. Why don’t they care about the roots?

I feel I am capable of intellectual thought. I am not sure if I am capable of intellectual conversation. Maybe it is that it is all pseudo-intellectual. Prepared speeches of “I know this. What do you know?” Why do you know it? What is that basis for that knowledge? How do you apply it? Why do you care? Why should I? I like to know why something is important to someone else. Don’t tell me about the newest topic is “Smarty Pants Magazine” unless you are prepared to tell me why it has an effect on you.

I had another conversation today with a high school physics teacher, probably also a mere ten years out of high school himself. He was commenting on how it just recently that he has noticed more girls catching on the physics concepts more quickly. And I told him that I liked physics very much, but that I needed to know why everything worked the way it did, and I had a very difficult time grasping a concept if I had to accept a given- in his words, an “assumption.” If I don’t know why I’m doing it, it won’t stick.

And so I sit there listening to conversations, and whenever I actually have something to say, I am entirely stepped on by the next person who has a piece of paper that says that their mouth is more qualified than mine to participate. Suddenly, a topic arises that I can latch onto! Chihuly. I’ve seen an exhibit of his. Several members of my family own videos and books of his works. So I am able to inject a few points of interest and ask somewhat informed questions to make other feel more informed, and subsequently teaching me something so in the future I’m even *more* informed. But when would I use that information? Why would I use it? So the next time a friend says, “How about that super important influential international writer?” I can say, “How about that Chihuly?”

Pretty lame.