Yesterday 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.
They were not my own notes. They were my younger brother's who died recently from cancer.
And 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.
The 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.
And his search for understanding of himself was honest, open, and almost fearless. He looked at himself in order to try and understand himself.
My 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.
I 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.
The 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.
And I don't exhaust my body, or strain my voice.
I only strain those of you who bother to wade through all my writings to hopefully find a nugget amongst the mire.]
In 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.
Except one, the youngest of my father's brothers, who was a highly emotional and opinionated orator.
Would 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.