Scattered Thoughts of Reflection

I gave my a speech today. It was supposed to be about myself which I hate doing. My mind tends to go blank and I tend to revert back to a description of where I went to school, what my job is and punctuate it with dates. I don't like being defined by what I do or did. So I gave a speech that had no message, it meandered and felt a bit like a random number generator. I put a lot of thought into the speech and in the end, I decided it was clever. This should have been my first warning - what I think is clever generally confuses people or they miss the nuances. So the speech was in the style of a short story that has no beginning, no middle nor end, yet at the end you feel as though you know something you didn't know before. One of my comments was that I should have given the audience some indication of where the speech was going. Unfortunately, that was the point - the speech was going nowhere but would arrive somewhere, you had to trust me to take you there. I don't understand why people insist on knowing what the ending is before they reach the end. You miss the footwork leading up the final thrust because you know the bad guy dies. There is no element of surprise.

I entitled the speech "Scattered Thoughts of Reflection"

I did however receive a comment that intrigued me. "If you write a book about your scattered thoughts, I promise to read it." Firstly, because I've heard you should write a book before and secondly, because I'm not sure what in the speech intrigued the listener to want to know more in published form. Needless to say, I passed on my blog address. One day I'll figure out why I hate talking about myself but I am perfectly willing to make fun of myself in a public place.

My speech - imagine it being surrisceptly at too fast a pace because I didn't practise the night before so instead read it on the way to work.

To prepare for my speech today, I sat down cross legged on my carpet, cracked open my Competent Communication manual and turned to Project 1 – the Ice Breaker. I scanned the paragraphs looking for what I had to do. I read, “The best way to begin your speaking experience is to talk about a familiar subject – yourself.” The paragraph continued on, “you should choose several interesting aspects of your life to talk about.”

Right, I thought. That’s easy. I can skip the boring bits. I pulled out a piece of paper and wrote ME on the top in large letters. I stared at the paper for a few seconds. Nothing came immediately to mind. I rechecked the manual. It struck me that it would be better if I categorized the interesting things about myself so that I could choose one category. It would be easier to weave them into the story I was supposed to be telling. I went hunting for my pen set. I’m a big fan of writing things in different colours that way you can tell immediately by looking at the page what belongs in which category. My brother gave me the pen set when I was in undergrad for my economic courses. My notes from undergrad are very carefully written. The demand curves are always in blue; the supply curves are always in red and the axises are always drawn with a ruler. When I was a tutor, I would always hand over my ruler to my students as soon as they started drawing freehand. At the next session, they always brought a ruler.

Having found my pen set, I underlined ME in red with a ruler. I then wrote interesting things under it in green and underlined it again in orange. I concentrated very hard for a few seconds. Still nothing. I decided that I was thirsty and needed a drink to help me think. Something that would assist the mental juices to flow and allow me to ponder. I wanted a cup of tea. So I got up again and started making a pot of tea. I have become very definite in what I like in a tea. I like black based Indian assam teas and I prefer loose leaf. This is mainly because I drink Fortnum and Mason Tea. Fortnum and Mason take their tea seriously. They have rare teas which cost a small fortune and even rarer teas which cost an arm and a leg. They also have more normal teas. If you drink Fortnum and Mason tea, you feel that you should make an effort. Thus I have switched to loose leaf. At first I used a tea ball but I have since learned that if you throw the tea into the properly warmed pot loose, you get a better brew. This time I decided to drink my rose tea, which is a China tea base so it’s not as strong. I have tea cups with roses on them. There’s something special about drinking rose tea out of rose china cups. I always feel better when I’ve sat down with a pot of tea and a proper tea cup. You feel as though you have time to deal with your problems.

This time the problem was choosing interesting things about me. I peered at the manual again. I only need three or four interesting aspects. Well then, I drew two lines across my page in purple to create four boxes. I stared at the page again and sucked the end of my pen. I numbered the boxes. I took a sip of tea. I decided that I needed a cookie to dunk in the tea. I paused. I wasn’t supposed to be eating cookies right now but I needed a mental stimulant. I’m taking up hiking and biking this summer and I’m in training. I’m going from negative fitness to something approaching fit. Hence the cookie ban. I’m starting with the hiking. I have new hiking shoes. They’re red. I’m a big fan of red footwear. This started when I was younger and trying to choose between red or black winter boots. I thought the red ones were too flashy. My mother looked at me and said, “You have the rest of your life to wear black winter boots. Get the red ones.” So I did. When your feet look happy, you feel happy. On my first trial run with them, they worked fine. I, on the other hand, needed to work on my hill climbing ability. I looked at the cookies. You can’t eat one cookie and you can’t eat an odd amount of cookies. It doesn’t feel right. I decided on two.

By now, it was approaching dusk. I got up to turn on a light. I stared at my sofa. Why was I sitting on the floor when I had a full sofa? It was a bit of a dumb question. I tend to think better when I’m sprawled across the floor. I tend to lie on my stomach and wave my feet in the air. I would be much more productive at work if I could do my work on the ground. As well, my sofa was covered. I had my dressmaking pieces carefully laid across it. I’d eaten dinner on the floor as my kitchen table has my sewing machines covering it. I can consider myself a proper seamstress because I have put the machine’s needle through my finger. My mother always said that you had become a proper seamstress when you had done this. I always thought she was crazy. There was no way my finger was fitting under the foot of the sewing machine. Then my father bought us a treadle machine, which I adopted. I had great fun ensuring that it ran freely and smoothly. I started using it for simple experimental seams. Then I put the needle though my finger. On the old machines, it is possible. If I had the money and the space, I would rescue old treadle machines. People tend to butcher them to make end tables. I love them - a beautiful treadle machine is a work of art. As I was finishing up my MA in Kingston, I discovered an old treadle machine in the antique market. I had never seen one like it before, and after much deliberation, I bought it. The drawers were filled with candy and the entire thing was still covered in dust. As I cleaned it, I kept discovering doors that would open until I could reach all the necessary parts to give them a good dose of oil and a thorough going over with the vacuum cleaner. One of the doors had been glued back together incorrectly so I needed a replacement. My father told me that the glue was such that we couldn’t get it apart. He’s the type of person who if he can’t fix it knows someone who can, so he phoned a friend who phoned a friend who sold me the replacement door.

That reminded me. I had to phone my father. I stared at my paper. My four boxes were still empty. My cat came through from the bedroom where she had been sleeping. As is the way with cats, she came and sat on the page and started washing her face before flopping down on top of it. “Auburn, get off. I’m working on that.” I said. She looked at me and yawned. I checked my watch. I had just enough time to go for my hill climbing walk before getting ready for tomorrow. I stared putting my pens away and collecting up my tea things. Tomorrow I thought, tomorrow I’ll figure out something interesting about myself. Then I thought for a second. Tomorrow was the birthday party of a friend, the day after that I was going hiking and the day after that I was meeting a friend for coffee. I grinned. Why should I do all the hard work? I’d ask my friends for something interesting about myself. They hung out with me. I couldn’t be all that boring.