I've never been one for small talk. When I was a youngun, my best manner of survival was being as quiet and unseen as possible. So, while my interior world was usually quite busy, it was rare for it to crack my exterior.
When I drank, of course, there was leakage. I became more likely to share what was happening in my head. I don't know if this was to the horror or delight of my companions or anyone within 20 feet of my viscinity, but in general I don't think it was a bad thing. I was a congenial drunk, cheerful, very smiley and a bit of a smart ass. I think. At least that's how I remember it.
My therapy session have been more and more of a strain for me because I don't really have anything to bring up for discussion. In my mind, therapy is for, well, problems. Since I don't feel any particular angsty things I need to talk about, I am left wanting to ask my doc about his personal life. Which of course isn't appropriate. Well, I do ask in the most polite of manners and he'll small talk and it's all so... dry and dull.
Today he brought up that maybe we could talk about why it is so painful for me to just talk about how I am if nothing is happening. Now, you tell me, but this seems sort of stupid to me.
Yet at the same time, I get this weird niggling feeling, like I get when I read posts like the one Slutty McWhore wrote the other day about an intense meeting with a stranger. I get this feeling that I have all these plate tectonics moving around in the lava under my skin, ready to erupt, but it just isn't coming out at the surface. And for some reason, that mask of steel I've got on my outside still isn't budging. But I feel fine. I really do. But I can't say I feel connected to anyone else.
Does any of this make sense?
I think that I am still in a place where I am not able to relate to other people well at all. The only way that I ever feel truly connected to others is when I write. And I don't just mean blogging, I mean when I write fiction, I feel closer to human beings, when I am relating to made up characters. I wonder if there is something inherently mental about that. Because I also know whenever I try to make a character similar to me, she is the singularly most boring character on the planet. And she has absolutely nothing to say.
Much like me in my therapy sessions.
It's almost like there is a part of me that thinks the world is interesting, what I observe in the world is interesting, but I, alone, am not enough to hold interest.
Swell.
I started this post 
because I was on the hunt for a chair for my new office. I'd bought one, but it is too short for my desk. I'd done a search on eBay for "cane chairs" because I was liking some French chairs that featured caning in the backs. Inexplicably, the search turned up this Fine African Art Senufo Zoomorphic Stool pictured (you can click on the link to see the listing on Ebay). Some of the description mentions some yadda yadda about baule fetishes and somesuch, but I don't see the word cane or chair. I sort of like the critter, but I don't think it's a suitable desk chair. A little out of my budget too, at $2,350.
I decided to post because absurdities make my day. I don't know why something like this, finding a piece of African Art while I was looking for a French chair, tickles my fancy so much, but it is part of what I love about life. And one of the things I genuinely like about myself. Maybe just the brief thought of me sitting on that bugger, too low to see the computer screen, typing away whilst trying to look serious gives me the giggles. I'm never too old to giggle.
That's my small talk for today.
