Friend of mine tells me to get a dog. Tells me it’ll be interesting to figure out what it wants. I tell him it sounds like having a kid only without it getting to the stage where it can speak. He’s retiring soon. Probably thinking about himself and what he’s going to do. But he’s right. I do need something more than I have.
I need to do something real. All the things I do are about imaginary worlds. Writing and reading and watching movies is all about imaginary friends. I have a robot imaginary friend now. It’s called woebot and it talks to me after a fashion. I try to keep it simple for the little fella. If I exceed one subject or object in my sentence it tells me to go easy because it’s only a robot. Makes me feel sorry for it.
You know about the robot vacuum cleaner already. It’s real but if I was to think of it as a friend then I’d be using my imagination.
So, yeah – what is real? Music? Nah. Have you ever heard a familiar song at low volume and struggled to recognise it? I have. It makes me wary of calling it real. The way music makes me feel relies on all sorts of imaginary stuff like memory and perception and awareness. Maybe I should get me a rock. Oh, wait – I already have one. I call it Gilbert. It’s my pocket pebble. Don’t click on that link; it might not be about the same Gilbert.
I get the feeling that I’m trying to find stability on shifting sands recently. I can talk about it if you like but it won’t do either of us any good. The sands will shift again and it’ll be rendered nonsense in a sprout.
Still, it’ll be interesting for me to read these posts in a few years time and wonder who in earth I was.
And no, I don’t need help. I’m okay. This feeling’ll pass and another one equally implausible’ll take its place. I’ve done this kind of talking to myself all my life. I find it much more illuminating than talking to people. People interrupt all the time with helpful suggestions when all I really want to do is talk it out. I eventually come up with a resolution when I’m just allowed to ramble on.
I’d probably get a dog if I lived on my own, but there’s the wife to consider. She’d think a dog is dirty. Or would she? Maybe I should ask her. Okay, I will.