Bad Habits - Emotion in motion - June 17 2004
A failure to communicate
It's just human nature that as soon as you pack something away, you need it. For instance, I'm in the midst of packing up my belongings. I've started with the books, because most of them — and there are quite a few — have been sitting on the shelves, untouched, for quite sometime.
I mean, when's the last time I ruffled the pages of What Your Dog Is Trying to Tell You or A Streetcar Named Desire or The Little Giant Encyclopedia of Handwriting Analysis?
I'm packing up because I'm moving. I don't have a place yet, but by getting packed I feel I'm on my way. I know all the boxes will drive me crazy and I'll be in a new place in no time. A crawling baby needs floor space, you know. So, every time I look at the boxes, I'll be sent a message: Hellooo, you're moving! That's what I call clear communication.
And it seems there's little of that to be found in adulthood. You'd think communication skills would get honed as you grow older, but it seems adults just get sloppy and confused. Babies have got it down. My favorite sound in the world, other than my baby daddy telling me there's two-for-one bacon on sale at Publix, is my daughter's laugh. It's like tiny, silvery bells ringing right in my heart. And it lets me know she's happy. Of course, it's often replaced mere moments later by woeful wailing when her crawling attempts leave her sprawled face-down on the floor. But at any rate, it's simple: laughing = happy; crying = unhappy.
In adulthood, it isn't that simple. Maybe it's the why factor. Not only do you have to have an emotion, you have to explain it. Unfortunately, it's not as acceptable to hurl yourself into the floor and scream and cry, although I'd like to make a motion to bring that back. No, instead of simply exhibiting easily understood emotions, as an adult you are expected to speak rationally and then explain your simple emotions, all the while spinning them into something more complex and sophisticated than they actually are.
What the hell has happened to modern man? I somehow think it goes back to Alan Alda, but I have no real proof. Back in the '50s, even dogs could get their point across. With a well-placed woof, whimper or whine, Lassie could get Timmy out of a well, thwart bad guys hiding out at old man Miller's place or let you know the postman was bedding your wife. Tail wag = happy; growl = unhappy. That's what your dog is trying to tell you.
Or maybe, I need to go back to the '30s. Seems there was even less chitchat back then. It was all action. Think Tennessee Williams. The Glass Menagerie would have been utterly fucked if Tom had hemmed and hawed and sat there discussing crap, weighing his options, exploring his guilt and obligations. No, he bailed and we all understood.
My favorite story about my grandmother is how she cold-cocked one of my great uncles unconscious with a telephone in the late '30s. Don't think of trying it these days; phones were much heavier back then — these portable things aren't going to do the job. I'm not sure what my great uncle did, but I'm pretty sure he didn't do it again. Now, they could have had a long discussion about mutual respect and hurt feelings. But really, I doubt it would have been as effective as a phone to the head. Because while words can hurt, they rarely render a person unconscious. See? Just as I pack up my Tennessee Williams plays, we could all use some lessons in interpretive drama.
I can no longer communicate in modern, adult fashion. The writing's on the wall, but unfortunately I can't decipher it, as the handwriting analysis book is all packed up.