It strikes me that one of my cats and I have a lot in common. She doesn’t really go out much, as she bothers the hunting cat by clinging to him, and she checks in with me every hour or so to verify that she is still alive. I now check hits on things to verify that I still exist.
This is an improvement on ten years ago. Ten years ago I was having to accept that my life was over, after having done nothing but work for years, since that was all I really cared about.
Ten years ago, I imagine Harry was still coming here, although he had probably starting seeing someone else at the time. Our relationship ended about two years before we actually split up, which is the opposite of Twisty and I. When we were together, fifteen years or so ago, we split up long before our friendship ended. He was so stressed that I felt I would have been killing him otherwise.
Not being able to talk about your actual skill is a very unhappy state to be in. It was not until a week or two ago that I finally lost my tolerance for small talk. Small talk is great fun, but when your mind is actually working on something much bigger, it eventually causes you to become extremely stressed. Even if you do get them on topic, they tend to run off with a different ball, and you lose interest in redirecting them.
I became intolerant of my sisters at around ten years old, whereupon it was decided that I was weird and not one of them. My mother did not help at all with this, as she is highly suspicious of anybody who is not like her. It was not until she had her stroke that she exclaimed that I was more like her mother. Us creative intellectual types don’t have much interest in making other people do things for us, or dressing snappily. We are busy doing something else, so it is wise to either get us to actually do something, or leave us alone. My mother was fortunate to have her mother, my father and then me in her life, as we were/are all pretty much the same, grumpy, positive introverts that apparently exist to do things for her.
Still, it gets very lonely when you have nobody to talk to about the subject that interests you. I have had to listen to years of ranting about immigration, and as a former ethnic minority specialist, I have quite a lot of counter argument to people who rant about immigration. Nobody has noticed that I have not bothered to respond to this.
The most intense egomaniac I was with, the chef, only learned what music I liked about two and a half years after I met him. Either I am a very quiet partner, or I have picked people that swither between self interest and not being particularly interested in me. I think I deserved better, on reflection.
Maybe we should be less tolerant. Make way for the optimists, and shed our skin more often when it comes to people. Maybe we should all be more like Wolfe, and ignore everything that does not instantly gratify. I have coped with too much, most of it for other people, and now I am left thinking that I will never get to discuss anything real with anybody.
This could be a good thing. It might lead to some interesting work.
I’m tired, and I do not see an end to being alone.