Sigmoid Brain Stems And Thoughtlessness

Okay, maybe there were a few more objects without naymes yet that stuck around. Certainly not the Mona Lisa (but if I ever visit her, I bet I can make her smile too!). When I was a little boy our teachers took us to the State Museums. They had one picture by an artist named Thomas Cole. After the first time I saw that painting, I recognized his work immediately in any museum that contained them since I was 8 years old. Especially the ones in the National Galleries in Washington, D.C.. I don't know why. I don't paint much at all. I'd rather compose words and music on the fly to see if they can grow legs. My children are not always children. Sometimes they're born full-growed out of my haid. Some with legs, others not.  
 
I started taking piano lessons when I was in the third grade from my school mate's aunt. She wanted me to learn to read music and play what I read on the instrument to prove I had read what was on the printed page correctly. I was already being blackmailed into reading the KJV to my mother aloud to prove I had read it. So, I sullied up on her, and that was the end of that. 

Currently, in my dotage, I read stuff aloud to myself to prove to myself I've read it. My parents were both school teachers. They didn't stop teaching when they came home very often. I was in school all the time. Day and night. I dreamed of school work and how one day I would run away and never have to prove I had read something I was told to. One day, I ran away. When I came back, they didn't expect as much, but things has changed for them too. 

My mother was disappointed I refused to practice the piano, but she seemed glad to save the money the lessons cost. I don't remember much about how I ended up taking those early piano lessons or how long they lasted. It wasn't the only time I'd humiliate myself not responding to the poor teacher who was unlucky enough to have me assigned to their classes.

One of the more embarrassing moments I've experienced that appeared to come directly into being because of my sheer stubbornness happened when the cast was rehearsing for a fairly large production musical. I played one of the lead character roles in the musical. My character sang and danced with his daughter, the ingenue, and with the entire cast during the finale. I simply could not dance in unison with the cast. What I did instead caused me to stand out like sore thumb. It looked like I was selfishly trying to draw attention to myself. I became an object of scorn. No blame.

I learned something from that experience that I relive each time I'm involved with groups of people. Don't do it unless I mean it. It a simple matter of my being there or not. I do the sa-me thing all the ti-me. I do something a little different to draw attention to myself. Naturally, I don't think I'm gathering the attention to be selfish or to fulfill ulterior motives. Hmm... maybe a small slice of the latter. It isn't unusual at all for me to have ulterior motives. Why would I not? Nobody knows. My motives can be an open and shut case, and nobody knows out loud, because my translucency is subjectively apparent. It's only to the degree that you know yourself that you can act in accord with what you "think" you conclude about my unconscious motives. If I hide them from my own inquiring mind for my own reason, you'll never penetrate my persnickety, inculcated rituals of indifference via mimcry. How can one reach to apperceive motives of any kind for unfathomable and unseen ulterior motives.

Now, I practice playing the scales hours a day, and she still hasn't returned from her grave and patted me on my head for being a good boy. I'm glad too. I hated that dress they buried her in. She died with "The Scream" frozen on her face. She was practically a skeleton when she croaked anyway. When I imagine myself playing away at the scales, completely absorbed in seeking her dead approval, and imagine what might rise up out of her grave and approach me from behind, and lift her rotting hand to pat me on my haid.... ARRRRRRGGGGGGH!

My father taught public speaking, parlimentary procedure, and debate among his many skills to his students. I used to volunteer to get up in front of audiences and perform in the hope of getting his attention. He had so many children besides his own, he did know what to do. 

There were not many times I saw him happier than when he was surrounded by his students and adult admirers. I've watched them unconsciously fold their hands together in front of their face so that only their gleaming bright eyes would reveal their souls to him. The were like the lights of a Christmas tree shining in the darkness of the night. I wanted to be just like that when I grew up. When I finally was able to emulate my father, I ran away from those eyes and those shining souls, but that time I ran away it was for good. I only visited after that. For some reason it seemed disrespectful to draw a bigger crowd in front of him. It was easier than I thought. People just like to do that. They'll used anybody that will let them. Rabble rousers don't need special talents, just a death wish is needed to pull the lanyard.