Bothe, after Paul Friedrich Meyerheim:
Apen in een atelier [Apes in the studio] (1852 - 1915)

" … a great and enduring blessing in my life …"

My chattering mind never completely shuts down. It natters away night, day, and every moment in between. It has essentially nothing to say. It never did and probably never will, yet it still serves a beneficial and essential function in my psychological ecosystem. It might be my linguistic gyroscope, that part of my iAlogue, my internal dialogue, that keeps me sane. However, anyone besides me, privy to the conversation, might reasonably conclude the opposite. The content makes no objective sense, exemplifying nonsense. It sounds, even to me, as if I'm shoving shit at myself, for it's comprised of critique and passing commentary, seemingly just so much chattering, monkeys manning my belfry.

When The Muse and I arrived in exile in Washington, DC, I noticed two distinct cultures as I walked the streets. The natives seemed to be all over each other, often making loud and pointed comments about anything, yet ultimately nothing. "You call THAT a hat? Maaaan!" I finally concluded that they were merely acknowledging each other's presence. It seemed they considered it a sin to pass anyone quietly without somehow acknowledging their presence. The carpetbaggers, of which I readily recognized myself, seemed more straight-laced on the street. We'd attempt to pass invisibly, studiously refusing eye contact, rarely acknowledging anyone else's presence. Stingy with our connecting, dour, dry, and miserly!

Who would I choose to be? I decided I would rather think of myself as one of the former, those who seemed to enjoy themselves as they moved through their world. I began shoving shit back and, after some practice, even initiating some. This felt enlivening after a lifetime of solemnity when slipping past my fellows. My street life became more of a party. I found that few of the natives denied me recognition. The carpetbaggers seemed to relent reluctantly, almost begrudgingly, as if I were interrupting some isolating trance or perhaps insulting their superior intelligence.

Life's too short if we can't shove some shit at each other. Hell, it seems even shorter when the monkeys don't show up in the studio. What was once a slightly embarrassing public experiment in Trash Talking to others eventually matured into a nearly constant component of my internal dialogue. When a clerk asks me how she can help, I start by pointedly asking how she's doing that morning. This question often produces a noticeable shift in the interaction. It slows down. A moment's distraction from the supposed purpose of the transaction enlivens the experience. I've passed an invitation for us to be more human than machine in the upcoming transaction, shifting it to a relational rather than merely a transactional one.

I am not just passing through the night. I might be spreading light, bumping into others, or at least saying, "Hi!" My monkey mind does not infect my rational one but enlivens it. It keeps me usefully distracted. It ensures I never take anything altogether too seriously here. It's always poking shit at me, belittling me, making fun, for until anything's fun, it's probably much better left undone. It serves as insurance against encroaching solemnity. A significant part of my internal commentary carries this quality, seemingly just so much chattering. It's actually me mostly acknowledging and reassuring myself, practicing not taking very much of anything altogether too seriously. My TrashTalkingToMyself might serve as a tremendous and enduring blessing in my life and my iAlogue's story.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #iAlogue , #PureSchmaltz