Christmas Morn
Short one, folks, 'cause it's Christmas morning.
I realize, more and more, that the reason I don't get along with my family is because they are all extroverts and I am a severe introvert. I know that not every family outing needs to be a battle-frenzied tour of my psyche turned inside-out from the passenger seat of a minivan, but that's just what I do when I'm in a small space with people who overwhelm me. It's not even that there's much content to be overwhelmed by; it's just that the input comes at such a high volume and frequency.... I can't stand it, and I know it's just my own personal preferences and nothing personal. I just can't understand people who talk so much. I know my mother and father have extricated their thoughts from their actions--I've seen evidence of thought and rumination in both of them--but I really think that my sister's thoughts are translated immediately into either action or speech. A pre-cro-magnon mind. In all the time I've known her, she's given me no reason to think that she actually thinks up there in that brain of hers. Sure, everyone thinks, but she doesn't know what real thinking is, the kind you have no choice in, the kind where your mind picks you up and walks you somewhere, willing or not. Or even contemplation, the voluntary appreciation of something. Our trip to New York City, we couldn't get her to shut up about visiting Liberty Isle; figures the largest object on her to-do list takes precedence. We get there, after a half hour of travel, tickets and queues, she looks at it for about five minutes, gets a picture of herself in front of it, and it ready to go. Meanwhile, I'm slumped on a bench, just kinda' staring up at it, taking it in, thinking about what it means, where it came from, what it used to mean, all the people who've seen it before me. She interacts with the world in a completely self-centered way; of course, on a different day, I'd argue that all thoughts and behavior are ultimately self-centered, but they don't have to be directly so. Though I am, at times, quite self-absorbed, I try to wind at least one loop around the people I love; it's about me, because anything I do has to be about me, but I fly a duster overhead so other people might get something out of it. Her loop has one stop and one stop only, like the trainset of an Angelman's child; she pushes that caboose around and around a circle 6 inches in diameter, and she'll do this for hours, until someone (usually me) performs some inscrutible offense upon her happiness, whereupon the caboose is thrown.
Yes, I know I am a brat. But she's not an interesting person.
I realize, more and more, that the reason I don't get along with my family is because they are all extroverts and I am a severe introvert. I know that not every family outing needs to be a battle-frenzied tour of my psyche turned inside-out from the passenger seat of a minivan, but that's just what I do when I'm in a small space with people who overwhelm me. It's not even that there's much content to be overwhelmed by; it's just that the input comes at such a high volume and frequency.... I can't stand it, and I know it's just my own personal preferences and nothing personal. I just can't understand people who talk so much. I know my mother and father have extricated their thoughts from their actions--I've seen evidence of thought and rumination in both of them--but I really think that my sister's thoughts are translated immediately into either action or speech. A pre-cro-magnon mind. In all the time I've known her, she's given me no reason to think that she actually thinks up there in that brain of hers. Sure, everyone thinks, but she doesn't know what real thinking is, the kind you have no choice in, the kind where your mind picks you up and walks you somewhere, willing or not. Or even contemplation, the voluntary appreciation of something. Our trip to New York City, we couldn't get her to shut up about visiting Liberty Isle; figures the largest object on her to-do list takes precedence. We get there, after a half hour of travel, tickets and queues, she looks at it for about five minutes, gets a picture of herself in front of it, and it ready to go. Meanwhile, I'm slumped on a bench, just kinda' staring up at it, taking it in, thinking about what it means, where it came from, what it used to mean, all the people who've seen it before me. She interacts with the world in a completely self-centered way; of course, on a different day, I'd argue that all thoughts and behavior are ultimately self-centered, but they don't have to be directly so. Though I am, at times, quite self-absorbed, I try to wind at least one loop around the people I love; it's about me, because anything I do has to be about me, but I fly a duster overhead so other people might get something out of it. Her loop has one stop and one stop only, like the trainset of an Angelman's child; she pushes that caboose around and around a circle 6 inches in diameter, and she'll do this for hours, until someone (usually me) performs some inscrutible offense upon her happiness, whereupon the caboose is thrown.
Yes, I know I am a brat. But she's not an interesting person.
posted by Alan Orlanski at 9:37 AM
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