04 November, 2005

Mommy says I'm a genius

I love when my Mom tells me about my very odd early childhood, and all the grief my parents apparently went through trying to figure out why I was so weird. They never really did figure it out - or if they did, they've spared me the information - but they did discover some pretty interesting things about a problem child to be.

I've felt so mundane, ho-hum, and unworthy for so long now, I can barely remember the time when I believed in the "gifted child" rhetoric. I never beleieved anyone could be "smarter" or more intelligent than others. I had this idea that some minds were simply exercised more than others. When I was much younger, my mind could do chin-ups hanging on with only its pinky... but it didn't. It loved recess, and was king of the playground. It played on the merry-go-round, spinning it faster and faster, to the reckless point where I am very lucky I didn't hurt myself. A lifetime of such frivolity has naturally left me with very bad habits. Very recently I saw my thirtieth birthday approaching with horror, as I have not yet accomplished anything, and I have yet to "become something." It is so much easier to lounge around life's velvet couch, to meander through the prairie of time, admiring and smelling all the flowers, but picking few. Oh, what a waste of that small patch of prairie, akin to paving it over with a parking lot for a non-existant business. So, every year or so, this guilt sets in, and I promise myself I will do something with my life. And what I do is nothing, or next to it; there are so many different flowers, and I know I have only so much time on that couch.


That's why I started doing this blog, despite all my bletchery in the first post. Here, at least, something will be preserved, and maybe the fact that something is inescapably there will foment something a little more moving inside me. I can only hope it moves more than my bowels.

Grad school and especially law school taught me that none of us is special. We really differ only in the degree of skill with which we play to our various audiences.

Comments:
I wonder what it was like to know you as a young boy.
 
Harrowing, I'm quite sure.
 
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