I was transcribing some notes from mini-tapes to MP3. They were about
two years worth of thoughts that had been recorded during a very
difficult period of life.
were not my own notes. They were my younger brother's who died recently
it was a surprise to me to hear his voice on the tapes, because I
didn't know I had any of his tapes, and I thought they were my own.
voice was low, quiet, concise; not controlled, but calm. Even during
that period of turmoil his thinking was clear and rational. In fact I
was quite amazed at just how realistically he saw situations, and how
well he expressed them.
couple times he spoke of me, his memory of the events was correct, and
his analysis of it was acute. And there were some events that he
refereed to which involved me that may be too
accurate. I would like to think he is wrong, that I had different
motives and intents than what he understood them to be. But that could
well be my memory trying to protect my ego. Regardless, his view of the
situation as it effected him was very precise.
his search for understanding of himself was honest, open, and almost
fearless. He looked at himself in order to try
and understand himself.
I heard my tapes, of which I have hundreds. (My brother had only two
covering three years of ardent self-analysis.)
voice is weak and labored, almost whiny at times. I get excited and
even emotional over small, insignificant things. I use ten-thousand
words to describe what could ultimately be expressed in twenty. I run
off in several tangents at once.
analyze myself, but I do so by first analyzing someone else, then
applying the problem to me. My straight-line thinking only appears that
way to me because the curve of my circular reasoning is so gradual due
to my taking so long to get to the point.
energy I exert when I talk to someone can exhaust them, and it often
exhausts me. And even when I talk into a tape recorder, all to myself,
I often lose my voice from tensing my vocal chords to their limits.
is one reason I would rather express myself by writing. I type so
slowly that my mind can do all its running in circles before my fingers
can get the words on the screen.
I don't exhaust my body, or strain my voice.
only strain those of you who bother to wade through all my writings to
hopefully find a nugget amongst the mire.]
I sit peaceably by myself, I can imagine myself as being the calm, cool
person my brother was....
fact, a realization just came to me (see what I mean about tangents?
And there has been several more that I have allowed to pass). My father
was quite cool and calm, though more controlled than my brother, and so
were my father's brothers.
one, the youngest of my father's brothers, who was a highly emotional
and opinionated orator.
father and brother spoke from their head. What you heard was thought
out before it was spoken. No other words were necessary because
everything had been boiled down to the bone.
speak from my toes, and my head has very little to do with what I say,
except to listen to what my toes are saying to see if there is anything
worth while in the verbiage they put forth. As with my website, anyone
who listens to me must also listen to the pot boil away, and stand
clear in order to not get boiled upon (I tend to fling my arms about
when I speak). And when everything is boiled away, there my be nothing
left but a burnt pot with not even a sliver of a bone of truth left to
show for the effort.
brother and I are different. In fact, and in many ways, almost
envy certain parts that are him. And, I believe, he envied certain
parts that are me.
I want to give up those parts of me that I envy in him? Not really. I
like who I am. And though there are times I think that the
idiosyncrasies I have mentioned sometimes (maybe even often) handicap
me, they make me who I am. They make me the person I have finally grown
to like, and even enjoy.
my brother have given up any part of who he was to incorporate any part
of me that he may have envied? I'm sure he wouldn't have.
suppose, in the final analysis of things, that each of us is like
fingers on a hand. At a quick glance all the fingers look the same. But
they really aren't. And if the little finger was to be as long as the
middle finger, the hand wouldn't close properly. And consider the thumb
if it were any different than it is.
I was young, I wanted to be somebody else; Any
body else! Now that I am so much older, there is no one I would rather
be than who I am. Perhaps it's just that over the years I have grown
used to the person I am; or maybe I'm just too tired or lazy to
consider making the effort to change, so I settle into just chipping
off the jagged edges of what is left of who I have finally become.
don't know. Nor do I guess it even matters anymore. I'm just thankful
that I am able to recognize the envy that I do have, instead of hiding
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