Talk Amongst Yourself

I talk to myself; a lot.

Sometimes I fear being accused of being a stereotypical crazy homeless man.  The one that the movies love to portray, wandering around, arguing with himself.

I don’t argue with myself.  Well, at least I never argue with myself and lose.  Not yet anyways. 

I’m not sure why I do it.  Often when I’m working on something, or with something: I anthropomorphize it.  I can’t help it.  Things become ‘he’ or ‘she’, and I swear at them, or praise them according to how things are going.  Lots of people do that, actually, I’ve seen it. 

When I find something hideously wrong while I’m inspecting an airplane at work, I’ll chide the airplane to “not be like that, now”.  If I whack my head on something, I’ll turn to the offending bit of metal and express some anger, “Is that really how it’s going to be??? I mean, really?”

I talk through problems with myself, just kind of voicing thoughts out loud.  Almost to hear if they sound rational or not.  Sometimes something doesn’t sound bad in your head, but when you say it out loud, it just sounds terrible.  Ideas to steer clear of. 

Other times, I’ll be rehearsing for a conversation I’m going to have with someone.  I kind of say what I want to say, and like to hear how it sounds.  So I can say it differently if I need to.  Voice tone, pitch, timing, etc.  Actor shit, I guess.  Not that I’m an actor, but I do it anyways.

Occasionally, I’ll have both sides of a conversation, and that’s when I know for a fact that I sound crazy.  I’ve even been busted at work doing it sometimes. 

I just acknowledge the other person’s presence, and stop talking to myself, as if nothing happened.  I wonder what they think?

I have discussions with myself, of past events.  Arguments, or debates that didn’t go the way I wanted.  So I’ll rerun them for myself, out loud, with more carefully chosen words.  Perhaps I misguidedly think I’ll learn something from doing that?  It’s just a habit.

Once in awhile, I'll speak of the dead.  Not TO them, mind you, just OF them.  No ghosts for me, thank you very much.

I do it in my head, I do it quietly out loud.  I often get tears in my eyes when I do it.  I guess it's how a person like myself, who eschews funerals, and overt public signs of grief, deals with death and loss.  I do my own memorial services, for myself. 

I'm enamored with the idea of a Speaker For The Dead.  Not my idea, it's Orson Scott Card's.  It plays a big part in his Ender series of novels.  If you like science fiction, even a little, they are a must read.  Do it.

Basically, a Speaker For The Dead, is summoned when someone dies.  Anyone can ask that a Speaker comes and speaks for the dead person.  This 'order' of Speakers is recognized like a religion. 

The Speaker will come and research the person's life.  They will find out everything they can, the joy, the pain, the good, the bad, the bland.  They will encapsulate all a person's life into one presentation.  The Speaker has the job of telling the truth of a person.  Whether it causes pain or happiness to the survivors who listen.  A person is who they are, and that is what the Speaker does.  Tells it like it is, or rather, was.

It seems to me that this sort of an approach would be highly cathartic.  I could see hearing such a thing, being painful, and hard to listen to.  But in the end, a greater understanding of who the person really was, would be the payoff for all involved. 

As a matter of fact, if I ever get around to making a will, I'm putting that in it.  I wish to have a Speaker summoned.  I will leave some notes for them.  Perhaps some things I have never told anyone to get them started.  Post the request on Reddit, or something.  Hopefully someone who knows of the concept could do me that last favor.

Or maybe that would be my last communication with the world.  The request for a Speaker For The Dead, to speak for one Frederick Damien Robel II.

Arriving at the point though, that's what I do sometimes.  I talk to myself about the people that I've known who die.  I sort of go through all the things I knew of them.  I sort out my feelings about them being gone now. 

I took a small stab at doing it in front of people once.  When my dad died.  (Good god, talking about THAT again?)

My mother requested that both of us kids write something for his funeral, for us to read out loud, or for the priest to read for us. 

I sat down and started writing something.  I don't even know if I saved it.  I told how my father was.  I think I mentioned his temper, his smoking habit, his stubbornness, his righteousness, his kindness, his honesty, his high moral standards.  I was sort of thinking of telling it how it was, showing his strength, along with some flaws.  I sort of liked it. 

My mother walked up behind me, and read the unfinished piece over my shoulder.  She was horrified, and cried asking me how I could write such an awful thing about my father.  I didn't see it that way, and didn't know how to respond. 

In the end, I did the dutiful son thing, and wrote something that only said good things about him.  Praised my adoption, and such.  It was all true.

But it wasn't the whole truth. 

I had wanted to tell a bigger picture. 

I was only allowed to tell a postage stamp.

I did redeem myself in my own eyes, by standing up at his memorial wake, and telling the story of how he didn't strangle me with his bare hands when I totalled his sports car when I was 16.  It showed he had a temper, but that he could rise above that.  And it was sort of funny too.  It made most everyone laugh.  Which is a good thing to have at a wake I think. 

I keep telling myself, that the next time I have something to say.  Whether it's in an argument, a discussion, a job interview, or a funeral.  That I'll say all the things that I only say to myself.  That I tell everyone what I think.  But I don't know if I ever will.

I have a crazy thought sometimes of actually trying to sell the service that is portrayed by a Speaker For The Dead.  I feel most times that such a thing might go over pretty well.

Other times, it feels pretty ridiculous. 

I did have someone tell me once, that they wanted me to write their obituary.  Of course, that person is not even 30 yet.  So I hope I never get the chance. 

Until I figure such things out;  I'll keep saying them to myself.  I'll drive my hour to work, listening to my music, sometimes spinning tales of those now lost, giving commencement speeches, performing eulogies, giving lectures. 

All to the most critical of possible audiences. 

Myself

Cheers to voices outside my head.