Square One

If I had a way to do it, I would like to unobtrusively slip inside a person’s head so I could read or listen to or see the thoughts that reside there. Of course, that action would expose me to those deepest, darkest secrets about which I wrote yesterday. I would know, first-hand, those thoughts or experiences or ideas the person wants to keep sealed. I would feel the emotions that prompted the person to shackle those secrets to his or her brain, hidden from exposure to a judgmental world.

If I could accomplish that impossible intrusion, I would give iron-clad assurances the secrets would remain safely locked away. No one should fear revealing the secrets shared with no other person; not even the secrets exposed through unauthorized break-in to the impenetrable prison cells of our own making. My interest in learning what is inside a person’s head is not motivated by the possibility of achieving some surreptitious aim. My motive would be personal curiosity. That, and the possibility I might find we share concerns about the sharp edges and cavernous emptiness within the endless realms of our minds.

The targets of this curiosity of mine are numerous, though the identities of only a few come up with frequency as I daydream about such stuff. I think it is natural that my curiosity is piqued about people who read what I write here. What do they really think when they read my words? Do they think I am slightly daft? Irretrievably nuts? Dangerously psychotic? Moderately intriguing? A soul mate? A soul mate’s opposite? Because regular readers (as well as those who only occasionally stop here) rarely give me any feedback, slipping inside their heads is the only way to know what they think.

What does the woman who wanders the world in an RV with her husband think when she reads what I think? How about the man—a guy I think of as “G-man” because of his career in government—whose interests often parallel mine? Or my friend who finds the appeal of the road so strong that she collects vehicles to aid in her escape to the highway, should the need or desire be sufficiently strong? Or the woman who appeared in a recent dream with me on a houseboat on the Mississippi River? Or the pair of women, one of whom lusts for my leather sofas, in whose company for some reason I feel so utterly at ease? Or the woman who decompresses from demanding days by sitting on her deck, letting wine and gummies soften the hard edges of experience?

As I think about these people who at least occasionally read my blog, I realize they mirror the people I consider friends. And I realize they’re almost all women. Yes, I know, I’ve written many times about the fact that most of my friends are women. I still wonder just why that is. Maybe it is because I do not feel an immediate sense of competition with women, the way I do with men. But “competition” is not quite the right word; but it’s close. There’s something about other men (or maybe it’s not them—maybe it’s me) that makes me sense that I should be on guard, as if they are adversaries. It could be my assumptions about them—their strongest interests will be in things that hold little appeal to me: sports, hunting, golf, conservative politics, and so on—make me feel dull and imprisoned by their presence. That is grossly unfair, of course. But regardless of its propriety, there is it. So, what word best describes the sense I feel…if not competition, what word best describes it?

I may be wrong about who reads my blog, too. It’s entirely possible that men in my circle of acquaintances regularly or occasionally read what I write. But if they do, my curiosity remains: what do they think? Not just about what I write, but about everything? That’s what interests me. What people think and feel. What motivates them? What do they find off-putting? What philosophies guide the way they live their lives? What interests them? Why, for example, do they crochet or refinish furniture or work with stained glass or throw pottery or make sculpture? My interest is deeper than getting the “because it relaxes me” answer; I want to know why that particular undertaking eases those tense muscles.

There’s so much on my mind this morning. Much more than I’m prepared to write about. There’s excitement, of course, about selling my house. And moving to another one. But there’s fear, too. Fear that I might have unrealistic expectations. That’s true of me, though, almost all the time. I worry that I might be setting myself up for disappointment by setting my expectations so high; but, usually, my expectations either are met or exceeded. So why worry? It does no good. But I do it anyway, just in case. It’s silly and unhelpful and very possibly dangerous to my health. So was smoking; that took me more than three decades to finally stop. And I got lung cancer, anyway.

My late wife and I used to laugh hysterically when we talked about her misunderstanding of a lyric from John Prine song, That’s the Way the World Goes Round. Here’s the correct stanza:

That’s the way that the world goes ’round
You’re up one day, the next you’re down
It’s half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown
That’s the way that the world goes ’round

But she heard:

That’s the way that the world goes ’round
You’re up one day, the next you’re down
It’s half an enchilada and you think you’re gonna drown
That’s the way that the world goes ’round

That’s how we should react to worry; just laugh it off. Easier said than done, of course.

My mind is all over the place this morning. I need to take a deep breath and relax. A little meditation could certainly help. Just ease into the day, John.

An hour and a half from now, I have to drive to the grocery store to pick up an order I placed online last night. That will take my mind off the million and one things that are trying to cut me into an equal number of slices so thin I could see through them. And that is what I’m after when I think about slipping inside someone else’s brain: I want to see through the thick walls we put up to hide what’s behind them. And I’m back to square one.

Onward, through the haze of pollen and confusion.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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