No, no, no. I know, I know. I'm supposed to be reading, but Invisible Man is so good, I think I could have it finished in no time when I get right down to it. Check it out, it's a delicious read.
Anyway, I just feel the need to talk about my own uninteresting life. So, not to sound incredibly boring and eccentric, but have you ever remembered something that happened back in your childhood, and you can't remember thinking? Well, I already told Kelly about it, and she basically told me that I'm crazy because I think too much.
But, really, when I think back to my childhood, I can see everyone else, children and adults alike, thinking. Just thinking, plotting, planning, executing every idea with precision, and I can't remember having a single thing in my head. Like when I learned something, I remember hearing it, I remember regurgitating it on tests, but I don't remember retaining it in my brain. It's like when I speak French, or when I play music, or when I draw art, or when I act, my mind is completely clear and I just do what I do without forethought.
Okay, maybe you need a specific example. One time, when I was in the third grade, I walked into the Girls Bathroom to, well, use the bathroom. Well, there were about five or six girls two grades higher than me, much bigger than me, and they, subsequently, started shoving me around. "Why are you in here?" they asked me. "What does it matter?" I remember retorting. I don't remember even letting the question settle in my mind, I just opened my mouth and said it. And then I continued, not even thinking of what I was saying. "How about you all leave me alone before I get a teacher and let them ask you the questions?" and I gave the biggest one a shove into the stall door. Now, if someone were to do that again, I'd probably do just that without even saying anything, but they ran away. Very very far away. And I can't even remember thinking about anything.
Well, I remember thinking, but I remember the thoughts vaguely, like my mind was always a jumble of a million things unrelated to life. One time, again in the third grade, my teacher had won an award, and we were to be filmed and put on television. At the time we were writing books, and drawing pictures to accompany the stories, and instead of working, I was focused on getting on camera. I stared at the ceiling like I was concentrating, I raised my hand and asked the silliest questions that came to mind (and I never ask questions in school, I usually know it or figure it out on my own, even then), got up to use the bathroom, fiddled with my feet under my desk, all while the other children quietly worked, writing and drawing. Of course, every other kid in the class got air time. The only time you saw me was when you could see my reddish hair above someone else's head, or when you saw my nose pointing up to the ceiling as I tried to "concentrate". And I can't remember thinking about anything but, "I want to be seen! I want to be seen!"
I can also remember back to the same year of my life, during Halloween, we painted pumpkin faces for a class contest. Whoever made the best pumpkin painting would design the class pumpkin, also to be painted (we couldn't carve, because knives aren't allowed). All of the girls drew puppies on theirs, all of the boys drew the same faces with the biggest fangs they could fit on. I painted mine under the guidance of my art-savvy mum, and it had these neat blue eyes that had a twinkle in each corner, with a big goofy grin and freckles and buck teeth, and a little vine from the stem. It was the coolest pumpkin of them all, even the teacher said so, because it looked so different from the rest. But one of the boys won, because he got his friends to vote for him. And our class pumpkin had fangs and squinty eyes. But the saddest thing was, I couldn't remember thinking as I voted, and just wanting to be cool, I didn't even vote for myself. I picked the one that was going to win. I did come in second place, but that's not even what matters.
There's something amazing, but disappointing, in the child's mind. It's only the present that they see, not the past, not the future. I'd like to think that if I had liked the past as a child, with some forethought to the future, I would remember what happened to me a lot better than I do now. And everything is a lot more innocent, and the complexities of the adult world were not comprehendable, but commendable. Yet, all a child wants is acceptance from other children and adults. To be one of the crowd. To fit in. To have the best toys and the best clothes. In that way some people have never grown up, and the complexities of adult life will continue to allude them until the harsh reality hits them cold on the face, and they wake up, pregnant, drug-addicted, alone. And what makes that so sad is that a real adult sees the trials and tribulations of the ignorant ones with the childlike mind, and the real adult can never go back to the state of innocence they had once had. Do you know what I mean?
I guess with all of the children's books and nostalgic memories that this is part of letting all of that go. And I'm sad, but not sad. I'm just glad I've changed enough through that lack of thought to become the strong and relentless soul that I am.
And I need coffee.