working toward an ability to share the "big kicks"

          "You see, I get so much fun out of thinking that I don’t want
          to destroy this pleasant machine that makes life such a big kick."
                                 — Richard P. Feynman,
                                 Surely, You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!  Adventures of a 
                                 Curious Character


I enjoy this quote.  I do not pretend that the meaning intended by Richard Feynman is the meaning I have given to it when I took to liking it as representative of an aspect of my world view.  But, I do enjoy it nonetheless.

I suspect -- but do not know due to my own sense of alienation from others (whether virtual or real) -- that every person has moments of feeling that as if one were a ghost unable to touch things in a tangible world or of being unseen (or worse, of being seen but seen as an alien) in a crowd.

One of the reasons for my attempting this blogging effort is that I often feel deeply deeply inadequate in my own inability to communicate.  I do get a great deal of joy in thinking -- and in meeting thoughts of others -- but way too often not so much in actually meeting others.

There are several reasons for this.  One of them is that I undoubtedly have a misplaced sense of personal value.  I have been told that it is misplaced because I find it odd that anyone would find what I have to say interesting, because little of what I have to say that does not sound heretical -- and even some of the heretical as well -- has not been said before by someone else.  I have also been told that it is misplaced because I do not think that I am all that funny, certainly not as funny as my words or mannerisms seem to evoke that reaction in others.  Many is the time that I have shared a personal observation aloud, to which others, upon hearing it, laugh.  I have one friend who, upon hearing my first words to him in greeting whether in person or over the telephone, immediately breaks out into laughter.  I have mentioned this in the past to my wife Penny.  The last time I did so, she just smiled that smile that carries with it the same message contained in what she offered aloud in her response to me:  "So {dragging out the "o" so that it sounded like sooooooo}, is it you, or is it everyone else?"

I once worked for a living making arguments on motions in a courtroom.  When a judge took a brief recess (pun appreciated but not intended) from a motion calendar, it was not uncommon for the attorneys who knew each other due to frequency of having run into each other on motion calendars to share recent courtroom adventures, to talk about some new case, to ask for advice or about how to approach a judge in arguing a matter, or what to expect from a judge.  On one occasion, a younger attorney asked a question fitting into the latter category, to which I gave what I thought was a quite serious answer, and the small group attending broke out in laughter.  As they calmed down, I said, "I wasn't trying to be funny.  I was quite serious."

Responding to my reaction, one of the attorneys in the group said, "Oh, you did not say anything that most of us were not thinking.  I do not think any of the rest of us would have said it, and certainly none of the rest of us would have used the same phrasing or the tone of voice you do when you offer your opinions."

Now, I will admit that I would like to think that I am completely oblivious to what tone of voice he was referring.  But, to my personal chagrin, I assumed then (and believe even now in retrospect) that he meant a sarcastic one.  I repeat, again that part of my assertion of being unsure, if for no other reason,  because I was not trying to be sarcastic.

A salve to which I look at times when the feeling of other from such moments occurs is the memory of a televised biography of Groucho Marx.  In it, the narrator stated that there was an occasion when Groucho had hosted a party for his frends at his home.  According to the narrator, after this party, Groucho told a family member (in a manner conveyed by the narrator that indicated Groucho was bothered) that many of, and possibly most of, the times, Groucho had made comments during the party that he had intended to be serious, people laughed at them as if they were comically funny.

Despite the awareness that this feeling has been experienced by another, as do most people I suspect, I can remember (almost with hyper-clarity) occasions in which it seemed that I was the target of the laughter, or worse, the target of some exchange in which I was among the intended audience but about that which was being said I had no clue. 

One such moment occurred when I just did not understand the punchline of a joke.   My mindset was completely unreceptive to entertaining the intended joke at the time.

I was in second grade.  My family had just relocated from a very small hollow in the middle of the Pennsylvania Appalachian mountains to what then was a rapidly growing suburb of Pittsburgh.  The move occurred in February, past the middle of the second grade school year.  At the end of the first week in my new second grade class, I was introduced to the fact that the class held a weekly spelling bee.  I do not know if I remember this event as well as I do because, in the recess that had preceded it, I had been laughed at for my lack of ability in shooting marbles or if I remember the recess because of the spelling bee.  But I do remember both.

The bee started with one-half of the class along one wall and the other half along the wall facing them, with one simple rule:  Misspell a word and you must return to your seat.

As the spelling bee progressed, a slight buzz started to occur among those who were seated as the sides were whittled down, with those remaining correctly spelling more and more words before a misspelling occurred.  I only came to understand much later that such a buzz is normal in such groups (and not just among second grade children).  Within established groups, the members form expectations of other members, in the case of the class spelling bee, the expectations centered on which person or persons would left standing at the end of the spelling bee.  As it was my first week, there was some surprise on their part that I, the newcomer, was still standing among that few.  In retrospect, I understand.

However, as time passed then, the number of students left standing had thinned to the point where I was left standing alone on my side and there were still a few left facing me.  The bee went on.  One of them was given a word to spell.  I was given a word to spell.  I was not sure where the words came from.  I knew I had been given a spelling book when I had joined the class, and I assumed it was from that book that a list of words to be learned that week had been assigned.  But I was new, and if I been apprised of the details, they it had been lost on me in my coming to grips with the mid-year transition to a second grade class having at least double the number of students of my former class.

As I stood there, the pattern repeated:  Word to me, spell, word to one of them, spell, word back at me.  I felt the number of words increase for each one of us before one of us had to take our seat.  My whole attitude at the time became one of survival -- a survival which was a mixture of survival of whatever personal pride a second grader presumes to have, of survival in trying to attain to rank or standing within the herd, and survival of simple acceptance by them of me -- who was now more than simply the new kid, but in some ways by my seeming to have inserted myself into one of their defined select groups, the interloper.

In the end, I was left standing {pfwhew}.  Yet, I did not feel like the victor.  A few more words were tossed my way as I stood there alone.  I like to think now that this was done as a matter of completing some existing list of words, or maybe even the words from lists yet to be assigned to the class or, alternatively that this was done as a matter of curiosity about the newcomer (after all a perfect score tells one nothing about the limits of the person achieving it).  But, at the time, all I could think about was survival.  This was my first bee of this sort, no matter that it was routine to the others and the teacher.  I spelled the next couple of words {when does this end}.   Then, then I heard the teacher say, "Spell blind pig."

I did not hear the tone of intended joke.  Yet, I was about to discover that there was indeed in the instruction a joke -- a joke, it would turn out to be, shared by the teacher and the the entire class.

I resolutely responded, "b - l - i - n - d -- p - i - g," and the class erupted in laughter {why is the whole class laughing?}  The teacher, too {what is going on . . . did I wet my pants }, erupted in laughter.  Then, the teacher said, "Wrong."  {What?!!}

Then she said, "Class, . . . "

And they all covered their eyes with their hands as I stood there becoming even more confused {why is my face so hot . . . should I cover my eyes . . . why am I pouring sweat all over my body}  In that moment, I had no comprehension whatsoever of the nuance of the homonym that followed, hearing, as I did, only the words as my mind comprehended the sounds being relayed to it by my ears from the mouths of the teacher and the class speaking in unison.

". . .  a blind pig has no "i"s."

I headed for my seat, feeling humiliated, all the more because I had no comprehension whatsoever as to what had just occurred why they were laughing {Penny's voice again, this time intruding in my mind as I write: , "with you, Ray"}  at me  {I complete stubbornly despite her laughter mentally poking at me}.

Upon my being seated, the teacher went on with her classroom instruction.  That it took several hours for me to come to realize and appreciate the play on words (of "'i's" to "eyes") only added to my sense of self-mortification for not having understood it immediately.


I am sure that few from that Renton school class remember me let alone this incident so close to the surface of my mind today.  {foolish class . . . ignorant teacher . . . a pig with eyes can still be blind . . . **pfft**}

That last mental thought was shared here in self-mockery of my own retention of this incident  -- and I even now have a vivid mental image of Penny smiling at me, and I can almost hear her saying just barely more than a dim whisper and with a hint of laughter in her voice, "Let it go, Ray.  Let it go." 

So, why am I writing this.

In last few days, I was involved in a series of written exchanges as to which I am working hard to honor Penny's instruction.

I do so enjoy thinking, and I do so like hearing the thoughts of others.  But, I hate making gaffes in the process of communicating my thoughts and in leaving people with the wrong impression or, worse, hurting the feelings of another.  It troubles me to think that what I intend as humorous  -- let alone what I mean to be a serious question or a serious comment or even a discussion evolving out of a question or comment originated with me -- might have caused someone to feel as if I have demeaned them or that I was intentionally speaking above their heads, especially when the person or opinion is in my estimation valuable to me.  I consider it valuable even when I am being told that I am being too hoity-toity and need to bring the conversation back down to the more intelligible "that dog won't hunt" standard of communicating.

I have the further problem of tending to engage in self-disparagement when I conclude upon re-examining words that I have used  that I have imposed upon another's courtesy or sensibilities simply because I sometimes -- usually when I find myself communicating with someone with whom I let down my normal guards -- tend to become overly excited in the expression of something which occurred to me.  Such things that I wish could be undone stick with me, undoubtedly more than they should.

It is my hope that I can through this exercise of writing a blog attain some level of casual written communication at which I feel comfortable even when the subject is about things which are quite important in my estimation.  I know that some of my own distress comes simply from my later over-analyzing my own attempted communication as well as over-analyzing things expressed to me.  I have to overcome a long-ago decision to isolate myself from most casual communication with others except on the most shallow level of conversation or on that level which I consider minimal to accomplish a communication necessarily imposed on me to make.  I know that the whys for my doing this come from things which shaped my world view more than 40 or 50 years ago, and I know that many of them are not normal. 

Yes, it might be easier to take the drugs available to me by prescription.  But, in my estimation from experience, their truncation of dissatisfaction too often came at the price of having my moments of joy equally lopped off.   Nowadays, I no longer am required to interact with people in the agora as a necessity of employment, and I enjoy too much riding the lightning of where my thoughts take me -- so much so that I am willing to forgo the chemical alternative even if the price is some alienation, even from my friends.  What I hope is to develop new habits to replace my current predispositions which tend to misunderstanding.  One such habit is to slow down in writing, to rethink what I write before I share my thoughts so that I can avoid unnecessary alienation, especially of my friends.

Maybe someday I will be able to capture into appropriate words what I do intend so that I can adequately share that about which I enjoy thinking.  I hope that at least one or two of my friends will stick around to be there should I accomplish it.
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Comments may be made by clicking on the word Comments in the box below.  Feel free to comment, to offer suggestions, or even to throw stones.  But, in doing so, please note, my request for a certain deference to decency in language and civility in tone.