Flashback ~~ The Way My Brain Works

Flashback: It's 1990 and I'm in Junior High School. I've made the High Honor Role (or is that "Roll"? It is so not 1990 anymore) and I'm down in the foyer of Lakeridge Junior High, having my photo snapped with the rest of the 4.0ers.

** Open Mouth **

Me: "Hey Jerry, what are you doing here?"
Jerry: "I got a 4.o"

**Insert Foot**

Me: "Really?!?! I never would have guessed that of you."
Jerry, after a very, very, very slight pause: "Yeah, that's what I was just thinking about you."

I've never really given off "smart" and "academic" vibes and this is why:

The Way My Brain Works: The way I think and the way I talk are polar opposites. I don't mean to lead anybody astray. I just learned long ago that people give you funny looks when you sound like Jane Austen or Charles Dickens. I recently learned that being like totally bad at putting words together ... doesn't disqualify me from being an okay writer, because I can put my thoughts on paper and not my like totally valley girl lame convo.

The way I talk: "What it is, Bro? Oh duh. So, like, what's up with you? You good and stuff?"

The way I think: The door opened and my brother's distinctive voice echoed through the hall. As the sunlight fell on his profile, I saw unmistakeable signs of distress in his demeanor. As I meandered toward him casually, my eyes subtly scanned his face. His eyes looked tired and lacked their usual brightness. His eyebrows were slightly drawn together and his lips formed a slight frown until he noticed my presence. He smiled, but it was a tired smile--the smile you give to try to reassure other people--or yoursel--that yes, things are just fine.

I greeted him affectionately. [see above] He replied with an equally affectionate, and typically humorous, turn of phrase. His face and his sagging shoulders belied his light-hearted words.

Hi, don't be scared: No, but seriously, folks. I'm only slightly freakish in the way I think. The above example is much less frightening than what you'd get after I finish a good 200-year-old novel. I'm a cognitive chameleon--I can't help thinking in the phrases and expressions of the books I read: endless description with occasional dialogue after Dickens, humorous little social observations after Austen, and philosophical mental meanderings after Forster. I think that's part of why I love to read. For a brief time, it really changes the world I live in. If I could ever write well enough to create beautiful worlds for other people, I think that would be about all I could ask for from this crazy life.