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Jul. 7th, 2002 11:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
adrienmundiThe need to talk is very strong in me. It isn't the need to communicate in the usual way, or at least what I think of as the usual way; there is very little one to one in this particular need (though the ability to tell someone I want a large coffee and have them understand it is very important still). The fumbling/struggling with words is a part of the struggle with/because of ideas for me, and a necessary part of it. I grasp the world with my brain (as opposed to hands, emotions, trust, etc.), and I have to frame it in words to contextualize the experience. In short, I have to at least try to communicate part of this to at least one other for it to be real, for it to be anything other than a phantasm of my mind.
The struggle with the words, the frustration, and sometimes passion, that will animate my voice and manner is often misconstrued, and more often than not puts others off, or on guard. The furrowed brow, the occasional scowls, head shakes, the no's: all of this is aimed, not at the other, but at myself, at the damned elusive ideas who refuse to fit themselves into my language, at language itself, at my inability to bridge the gap, to close the circuit, to transfer some of the meaning for it to be real. I suppose I could write, but it's the dynamism of the other that seems to be the necessary, or at least preferred, precipitant to the process for me, but my need for an engaged dialogic partner is not as fulfilled as I would like, as often as I would like.
Bah, ending with a whine; oh, woe is poor little misunderstood me. Surely, enough for now.
The struggle with the words, the frustration, and sometimes passion, that will animate my voice and manner is often misconstrued, and more often than not puts others off, or on guard. The furrowed brow, the occasional scowls, head shakes, the no's: all of this is aimed, not at the other, but at myself, at the damned elusive ideas who refuse to fit themselves into my language, at language itself, at my inability to bridge the gap, to close the circuit, to transfer some of the meaning for it to be real. I suppose I could write, but it's the dynamism of the other that seems to be the necessary, or at least preferred, precipitant to the process for me, but my need for an engaged dialogic partner is not as fulfilled as I would like, as often as I would like.
Bah, ending with a whine; oh, woe is poor little misunderstood me. Surely, enough for now.
