Talkin’ to Myself

“…for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.” Matthew 12:34

If nature abhors vacuums, it should feel right at home with Americans. No, this isn’t about the chorus of chatter from the current parade of presidential candidates, as vacuous as it might be. It’s about my own disconsolate dilemma. You see, I’ve discovered just how much I talk to myself.

I hear you laughing. I know why. Your secret has been revealed. You talk to yourself, too. Silence is scary, makes us uncomfortable. The airwaves modulate with chit-chat. It’s everywhere, in elevators, malls, streets, and TV. It assaults us.

I have a friend, Bernard, who had hoped to escape the clamor of incessant chatter. He moved to Wyoming, bought a ranch, a horse and hunts most of the time. I once asked him if he missed the din of conversation. He said, “Look, I just returned from a month in the hills, just my horse and me. I couldn’t stand the silence. I talked to the horse.” I heard later that he had himself committed.

We can’t escape our own voices, or ears. We talk to the air and to all things inanimate. For example, take the collard greens I cooked yesterday. The dogs and I were at home enduring the silence. I told the greens I had to give ‘em a scrubbing and asked if they minded taking a long, cold bath. They put up no fight. I apologized as I dumped them into the boiling water. They shriveled and wilted. I begged forgiveness.

Situations usually provoke most of my audible self-speak. Like idiots in traffic, “What the *%#@ are they doing?” I often utter. And you don’t do likewise? C’mon, fess up. I even have dialogues with trash bags that leak on the kitchen floor. Everything is fair game for tongue-lashing.

We’re always running late for church. I pick through my ties, asking which one of the several hundred wants to hear the preacher’s sermon. I choose one that looks lifeless and say, “Hey, pal, it’s your lucky day. You’re gonna get resurrected.” Then I get a shirt with tiny collar buttons. Glad they can’t talk back. Good thing I’m going to church.

My wife is always talking to herself. She’s a bridge addict. She reads bridge magazines and plays bridge on-line with automatons. They talk back to her in a nasal New Jersey accent. Sometimes I think I hear her saying to them, “That’s a stupid bid,” or, “Why did you play that card?” I wonder if we’re both losing it. That thought occurred to me as I snarled when the cell phone battery died. Nothing is safe from verbal self-speak!

My daughter is an artist, a gentle soul. She takes pity on small creatures, like ants, spiders and butterflies. She has a habit of talking to them about their importance in the general scheme of things, roaches excluded. See? The fruit never falls far from the tree.

Most of the time, however, I find myself talking to myself about myself. Usually interrogations. Like, “Why do you…thus and such,” or, “Why are you always…this and that?” I find my other self responding, justifying the actions, or thoughts. One might think there’s a civil war going on inside. Of course, there’s a place for people like this… a padded room!

One day I decided to take a walk, hoping to escape the jawbone jabbering from the unheard abundance of my heart. I’m here to tell you that it’s impossible to escape yourself. Even in the dead-air silence, the nervous system buzzes in the ears. Nature abhors a vacuum.

It’s up to debate as to what positive results occur from talking to yourself. Nothing really changes, irrespective of the audible babel. Ex nihilo nihil fit…nothing from nothing is nothing. About the only absolute affirmation is that many avoid hearing our opinions. And this is an unparalleled relief !

As for the collards, well, they exacted their own revenge and talked back to me today. I’m now rummaging through all the cabinets shouting, “Zantac, Zantac, where are you?”

My advice? Get a dog. Talking to dogs is proof-positive you’re not a nutcase.

Bud Hearn
February 9, 2012