Tell me a story. No, no. Not that one. A GOOD story.
I love reading frothy, feisty narratives chock full of barely-restrained energy and/or violence, usually but not always merely implied. A rousing tale of woe or exhultation, often accompanied by whimsical, self-deprecating anecdotes. I’d LOVE to be able to spin out a tale like that.
My problem? I just don’t freaking pay attention.
Writers like Sheri Gilmour, Rachel Lucas or Leeann seem to soak in every subtle nuance of their experiences, maintaining an awareness of their surroundings I find truly daunting. Beyond that, they do something nearly incomprehensible to me.
They actually REMEMBER these things long enough to write about them hours, sometimes even days later. Black. Fucking. Magic.
I likely suffer, to a greater or lesser degree, from some form of long undiagnosed and untreated form of ADD. Easily distracted by shiny things. Start and stop conversations randomly, often with no one other than myself. It will be 15 or 20 seconds into a conversation with someone before I even remember their name. Coping skills in these kinds of situations usually involve the liberal application of all sort of appropriately vague personal euphemisms, such as “Buddy” and “Hey you.” I can talk for twenty minutes, catch up on old times, ask about the family, and wish them the best, without ever once using a first name. It’s an essential life skill for someone with my, uh, “condition.”
So, while I often have grand adventures as well as many of those charming personal anecdotes involving a trip-to-the-grocery-store-gone-horribly-horribly-wrong, I’m often in such a state of mental fog that I’m hard-pressed to remember exactly how it is I ended up with six boxes of sanitary napkins instead of jumbo roll paper towels, and how DID I get this bump on my head?
That’s why I have to take so many pictures. They are like little mnemonic memory devices that allow me reconnect key associations between the scattered fragments of random memories. Otherwise, it’s about a 50-50 chance that when someone asks me, “Do you remember the time we went to that one restaraunt with the Big Lobster out front?” I will invariably have to lie through my teeth and fake my way through the conversation with a lot of head nods and “Uh huhs” and laughing at jokes I really don’t understand because, really, it all kind of ceased to exist to me about the time we pulled out of the parking lot. I live in fear that I’ll ever get arrested and have to provide an alibi for something.
The Man: “Where were you at 7:15 pm on the night of June 18th?”
Me: “That’s a great question. I have no frickin clue. Let me see the crime scene photos and I’ll let you know if maybe I was there.”
There’s an old joke that having Alzheimers isn’t all bad, because you get to meet new people every day! Yeah, it’s kind of like that for me.
So, if I really do intent to post anything of meaningful consequence on here, I suppose I’ll need to do a better job of actually paying attention to the world around me. I mean, after all, who’s going to stick around to read a blog if the author is…