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Solitary Type
Jan. 25th, 2009 04:02 pmI ate my Sunday lunch alone today.
There was a crowd over. My sister, my nephew Sam, my other sister from Weston, her daughter. Both of them brought their menfolk. So the folks all sat down at Sunday lunch and ate together.
And where was I? Eating in the kitchen.
I hate crowds. I really do hate crowds. All that jostling, getting swept up in a melee of other people's feelings and emotions. All I ask for is my own time, to keep a clear head and to concentrate on the things that matter to me.
I don't have children of my own to focus my life upon, to guide and teach, to look after, to cuddle when they need me. I have my life, but there's really so very little about my life, my values, that I can actually connect with people. The folks, my sibs and my niece and nephew understand me, kind of, because they've all grown up with me. But the guys are strangers. They have no idea whom they are going to end up with as their brother in law.
Far as they're concerned, I might be some crazed axe murderer, a front page tabloid horror story of bloodshed just waiting to explode. I know, for a fact, that that wouldn't be the case.
I prefer a pitchfork.
I discovered that my sisters are planning on marrying again, relatively soon. This is a good thing for all concerned, and everyone seems so nice, and the boys look like they mean the world to my sisters, but of course there's the thought of the reception. Fancy clothes. Crowds.
I hate crowds.
I'll have to learn to sit there quietly at the table. I know that people don't talk to me. It's like having a person from an utterly alien culture sitting at the table - not so much someone from Tannu Tuva or the Outback of Australia, more like Mars or some outlandish world from science fiction. There's so much I want to talk about. So much I have to do. But the disconnect between the topics of conversation I hear, and the topics of conversation I am any good at, is sometimes so intense, so deep, that I may as well be speaking in Klingon.
So today, I sat in the living room while everyone sat out there in the conservatory. Occasionally, I'd wander back into the kitchen, pour myself a cup of tea and fill up the kettle. They always want a cuppa afterwards, and they're frequently surprised when they find that the kettle always seems full when someone comes out of the conservatory to get the teas in.
I can see, hear and think, you know.
Perhaps, one day, someone will approach me and ask me why I keep away from gatherings. Why I hate crowds. And maybe when that day comes, I will tell them.
On with the show.
There was a crowd over. My sister, my nephew Sam, my other sister from Weston, her daughter. Both of them brought their menfolk. So the folks all sat down at Sunday lunch and ate together.
And where was I? Eating in the kitchen.
I hate crowds. I really do hate crowds. All that jostling, getting swept up in a melee of other people's feelings and emotions. All I ask for is my own time, to keep a clear head and to concentrate on the things that matter to me.
I don't have children of my own to focus my life upon, to guide and teach, to look after, to cuddle when they need me. I have my life, but there's really so very little about my life, my values, that I can actually connect with people. The folks, my sibs and my niece and nephew understand me, kind of, because they've all grown up with me. But the guys are strangers. They have no idea whom they are going to end up with as their brother in law.
Far as they're concerned, I might be some crazed axe murderer, a front page tabloid horror story of bloodshed just waiting to explode. I know, for a fact, that that wouldn't be the case.
I prefer a pitchfork.
I discovered that my sisters are planning on marrying again, relatively soon. This is a good thing for all concerned, and everyone seems so nice, and the boys look like they mean the world to my sisters, but of course there's the thought of the reception. Fancy clothes. Crowds.
I hate crowds.
I'll have to learn to sit there quietly at the table. I know that people don't talk to me. It's like having a person from an utterly alien culture sitting at the table - not so much someone from Tannu Tuva or the Outback of Australia, more like Mars or some outlandish world from science fiction. There's so much I want to talk about. So much I have to do. But the disconnect between the topics of conversation I hear, and the topics of conversation I am any good at, is sometimes so intense, so deep, that I may as well be speaking in Klingon.
So today, I sat in the living room while everyone sat out there in the conservatory. Occasionally, I'd wander back into the kitchen, pour myself a cup of tea and fill up the kettle. They always want a cuppa afterwards, and they're frequently surprised when they find that the kettle always seems full when someone comes out of the conservatory to get the teas in.
I can see, hear and think, you know.
Perhaps, one day, someone will approach me and ask me why I keep away from gatherings. Why I hate crowds. And maybe when that day comes, I will tell them.
On with the show.
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mayphoenix