“Ya know, you think too much.”
I look up from my computer and try not to give Shelby* my “I like you. Never, never say something like that to me again” look.
I really do like Shelby. She’s a sweet, uncomplicated person. She is a person of Id. She is a person who knows what she likes, and how to go about getting it, and is pretty much happy with that as the totality of existence. She is a breath of fresh air, a breezy personality that I frankly need to have around to tell me to lighten up once in a while.
“What do you mean, I think too much? How can it be possible to think too much?”
I can be kind of insecure about the subject of intelligence. I happen to do fairly well in IQ scores, at least since reaching adulthood…but I learn slowly. I don’t hit the ground running, so to speak, and once I learn information, it takes me even longer to modify it.
I was never known for my brains in school. Most people seemed to think that I had an IQ roughly equivalent to that of a potted plant. One of my more charming nicknames was “veggie”…short for “vegetable”.
But dang it, I remember stuff. I have what I call a very durable memory. It’s not an eidetic memory. Not by any stretch. But I DO tend to remember things for a very long time…once they penetrate the ADD fog that surrounds my head, they tend to stick around for a very, very long time. Occasionally, something I heard once will stick with me, word for word, and I can reproduce it exactly years later, with tone, inflection, facial expressions, body language and rhythm intact. I say that it is not an eidetic memory because it’s not reliable. I’m not Rainman or anything…it’s just sometimes stuff sticks with me.
And while my processor is one of the slower models…it never stops running. I don’t have mental down time. I’m always sifting, sorting, running over and over things in my head.
I seize upon an idea the way a young dog seizes on his owners new Florshiems. I grab it joyfully and work it over from every angle until it’s pretty much been done to death. Then, I go at it for just a little longer, hoping that there might be some morsel of chewy goodness left in the subject.
Have I mentioned to any of you that my dear husband is a saint? He listens. He smiles. He nods. He points out areas I have yet to explore, buys me more books, and doesn’t drink much at all, considering.
You see, I think in pictures, but I don't really resolve anything until I put the images in the form of words. Something can make perfect sense when it's in the image stage. I have a three dimensional model of the subject, and all of the interlaced relationships can be shown in their proper form. But language tends to be linear...at least the language usage that most people understand and can follow. So with language you have to pick one thread in this web of interconnections and follow it. You have to pick the straightest path through the web. You have to boil it down to it's essence in order to put it into words and have others know what you are talking about.
For me, thinking, talking and writing are like breathing. I don’t so much like to do it, as have to do it. I don’t feel normal unless I am. Its fun much the way that breathing again after not being able to for a while is fun.
You get the idea…its fun, but there is a sense of compulsion to it that does actually rob it of a lot of its whimsy.
Not to mention the awkward moments when you have no one to talk to, but can’t stop thinking, and get caught talking to yourself. Luckily, most of my friends are weird and just sort of roll with stuff like that.
Ultimately, even though I am good with words, and I work with them a lot, and I happen to think that the results are good...it's a difficult process. Words aren't my native language. I have to struggle with them. If expressing myself through words is a compulsion akin to breathing...actually doing it is akin to breaking with asthma.
“You know,” says Shelby, “Like right now, you’re thinking and it’s pissing you off. You’re all…bunged up.”
“I’m not bunged up.”
“Then why are you yelling?”
“I’m not yelling, I’m projecting.”
“It sounds like yelling, and it sounds like you’re all bunged up about something.”
“Yeah? Well, shows what you know. I’m having a great time.”
“You need to learn to just let stuff go. Not everything is a problem for you to solve you know. Some things just…are the way they are.”
“Yeah…until SOMEONE figures out the solution to whatever it is, and changes it.”
“You’re not going to reconcile population growth, world hunger, and the limitations of sustainable agriculture. What you’re going to do is die young of an aneurism.”
What the hell? Had Shelby actually been listening to me? Unbelievable. You think you know someone for all these years and darned if they can’t surprise you.
“I’m not going to die of an aneurism, at least not because I’m worked up about world hunger. I’m just really enthusiastic about some of the stuff I’ve learned…”
“See? I asked you to go out with me three times in the last month to do something fun, and you said you didn’t have time, and it’s because you’re reading a bunch of stuff about something you can’t do anything about? You. Think. Too. Much.”
“I’m not researching it for OUR planet. I need to figure something out for my story. The first contact story?”
“Oh. That sounds much more sensible. It’s a fictitious world you’re trying to save. Got it.”
Good Lord. Now Shelby is using sarcasm. You know, I’m going to have to shop around for a new simple breath of fresh air. I think this one’s been hanging out with my other friends too much. They’ve corrupted her.
*not her real name. In fact, Shelby is not a real person at all. Shelby is, in fact, a composite of several friends I have known and had various versions of this conversation with over the years. Sorry if you thought otherwise. It just seemed best for all concerned if I fictionalized everyone that wasn’t me in the story.