I had a haircut today and given that the idle banter with the hairdresser was about my being lactose intolerant (one of my most overused conversation bits), I felt that I must be a really effing boring person. But it is not that I am boring — it’s that I am bored, far too often. I have so little interest in small talk that I never developed any. There’s whole sets of things that interest me that are largely beyond words, or only come forward in relationships — larger matters of life, love, and everything. Those interest me. But those matters are too rarely important.
I was leafing through my harddrive today, and I opened up a doc and began reading it, and my first impression was that I must be reading a letter that was written to me, because the writer was so engaged. Then I realized it was a letter I’d written, a letter I wrote when I was in a relationship. At such times, I am so much more alive that I didn’t even recognize myself.
I should disclaim the idea that I am bored by people. That’s not quite what I am trying to say. It’s more the condition or situations that people are commonly in that I just find excruciating. But sometimes conditions are nice: I was recently at my housemate Tim’s birthday and he played guitar while my other roomie Ben played bass, and a local vocalist/actress was on vox (naturally), and that was good. I have a pic or two on someone’s camera around here, I’ll ask Ben to upload the pics to his blog and I’ll display them here too. Not that they’re good pics (they aren’t), they’re just an event that was fun. Music in my own basement. Keen.