Whatup?

Hey, it's me.

Just calling to see if you wanna
hang out, ride bikes,
do nothing til we're blue in the face.

Mom could make rice chips
and we could drink limeade
and things could be simple again.

We could make noises
and grow avocados
and swing from the rafters and sing.

When we grew weary we'd collapse onto couches
and drink memories of summer days in.

When we grew tired we'd retreat to the backyard
and lay our heads close to the ground.

The trees and the sky
would wish us good night
and you would be with me again.

(The Long Awaited) Something Like a Chameleon Parte Deux: Why Learning to be Properly Socialized Has Convinced Me That I am Innately Evil

Okay. So you did not hold me to it very long. I told you too. There's a good chance I would not have felt the compulsion to post today had it not been for the daily increasing salience of the threat of being dropped from April's blogroll. Also, I've more or less forgotten what I actually included in "Something Like a Chameleon." This post, therefore, might end up a mix of things, might segue with a complete lack of style and grace into new things that I think I'd like to tell you, dear readers.

And I'm spent. Maybe I'll continue this at work? No. I'll go rinse my bowl and get a pear, and then try again.

I rinsed my spoon as well. And contemplated putting away my iron. And noted that we should dump out the salt and pepper shakers because Joanne, possibly evil landlady, sanded the wall behind them while they were still sitting in their spot on the stove, probably filling them with gross toxic wall dust.

Okay, so why am I evil. Something about being an elitist bitch. Something about little moments of thinking I'm better than people. No, that's not even it. That I figured out without socializing. It's being able to turn on and off. To pretend that I am something that I am not, that I know I am not, fully aware that I am imitating the people around me only in the interest of extracting something from them. I can't quite identify what it is that I want, what I'm trying to get, but I know that it's something innocent and unsavoury all at once. Something that makes me think there's something deeply twisted and dangerous inside my mind.

I'd go on, but the mentor just called. Off to be dutiful. I'll tell you about it later.

Something Like a Chameleon

Of course, my relationship with people is quite different. In all honesty there are very few people with whom I feel comfortable, very few instances in which I feel that the people around me are congruous, or counterbalanced, or complementary to myself. Most of the time I feel alien, apart from other people. This, of course, is when I break out the wallflower version of myself, or even worse, the socializing version of myself.

Imagine, if you will, a documentary narrative running through your head every time you find yourself in a group larger than four or so people. When I wallflower, at least I get to be that narrative. Everything I hear and see I may register where I will, observing natural people in their normal environment from my quiet little corner. When I socialize, however, the narrative keeps running, and I become subject. The narrative, of course, knows that I fake, that I play at being a real person, and hearing it run through my head I struggle against the urge to tense inside and retreat.

***
Maybe? Maybe not? I have noticed, as of late, that I have a bit of a knack for blending in. Not wallflowery, disappearing blending in, although I think I do a fair bit of that, but the inconspicuous, seeming like I should to be precisely where I am sort of blending in. Perhaps I give myself too much credit, but I cannot remember, ever, feeling as though I had stepped into the wrong space.

I do not know what or why this feeling is. In every city, on every continent, I feel as though I have never moved, as though the thousands of kilometres were nothing more than a change in scenery, a faint wash on the foreground of my life. Nothing moves around me, you see, only inside me. There are worlds inside me.