Details
I love used books more than pristine ones. The frayed corner top-left corners, the slightly faded ink on the 67th page where someone put their thumb, the bend of the first page, the fade of the front versus the back due to sunlight...I love them for the little details. The mysteries hidden beneath the surface.
It speaks to what I do and how I think. The way I thumb the chip on a mug with each of my fingers, the way I cut food with a knife, the way I read sentences backwards and forwards to hear how the words flow in my mind's eye.
When I was a child, I was told I played with the toys wrong. That I colored the books wrong. That I was saying the word wrong. But, there was no mystery in doing it the right way...no hidden value...no discovery. No details. Try finding out how many ways you can pronounce "epinephrin". See how many details you find.
I think this might be one of the reasons my thinking is so strange to most people. "That book is terrible","Oh, but looks at the ink fade on this page...how interesting." That a microcosm of what I think most people would find rather bizarre. The amount of time I spent thinking about how somebody pronounced a word or the rhythm of a wobbly leg on a table or the texture of a coin would probably be pretty unbelievable if I had some way of quantifying it.
This is twice as true with women. If they knew what was running through my head...*sigh* I don't know.
I saw a girl once with different shades of black socks. I remember thinking how pleasant her non-OCD was.
Whenever I see a girl with perfectly painted toe nails I wince. What's wrong with the natural pink? The uneveness of the white part of the nail says so much more...it's more beautiful.
I hate it when all of the pictures of a girl look as if she threw out 5 pics before picking the best one. The angles all start looking recycled and she comes as stale. It's the weird angled, half-blurred pictures that show her personality.
That's my gift and my curse with women: details. Details on details. When she speaks, I can hear if something from her or something she's learned. The way she swings her purse is from her or something she saw on 'Sex and the City'. Anything borrowed or forced is like that pristine book...no blurred ink, no frayed corners. Those words, those movements, those gestures haven't had enough time with her to really develop the right details. Details require authenticity, and eccentricity.
Like those frayed pages, sincerity is always fractured. It's imitation and performance that has that pristine, mass printed quality to it. Those toe nails that have uneven white endings tell a story where the painted toe nails just project an image. I hate images.
So, yes, I end up appreciating very small things that others miss, but, I also end up despising little things that others miss. The thickness of expensive foundation on her skin, that over-pronunciation of that french sound word, the OCD restraint in her writing, the child-like nostalgia that's her crutch for dealing with the world, the way she hums ever so softly because she'd dare sing any louder. I judge her for all of it. They all end up paining me.
Which is why I don't date normal girls. I'm too judgmental and have no way to explain it meaningfully. When flaws live in hand gestures and head tilts, when everything from a word choice to a random whim is a symptom of some bigger issue...it's not healthy. It's my secret I go through great lengths to never let her on to; how much I see.
I've heard some women in my life say that they wish their men understood them better. I'm not confident that would actually work out. These relationships largely work because there's an image of the women that exists in her man's mind and vice versa. Whenever the women doubts herself, she can look into her partner's eyes and see that image cast back at her. To, instead, have the details...good, bad, and ugly is a burden. That kind of nakedness and complexity is hard to find comforting. On paper, a person might yearn for someone to be able to "drop their guard with", but ultimately that's unconsciously much more about safety and non-judgement than honesty.
That's the thing with details; they complicate what needs to be simple. "Why don't you just read the book instead of staring at the corner of the cover?" Maybe I should...maybe I should start coloring the books properly too. But, I can't. It's not something I can shut off. The best I can do is just not share it with people and pretend it's not going on.
It speaks to what I do and how I think. The way I thumb the chip on a mug with each of my fingers, the way I cut food with a knife, the way I read sentences backwards and forwards to hear how the words flow in my mind's eye.
When I was a child, I was told I played with the toys wrong. That I colored the books wrong. That I was saying the word wrong. But, there was no mystery in doing it the right way...no hidden value...no discovery. No details. Try finding out how many ways you can pronounce "epinephrin". See how many details you find.
I think this might be one of the reasons my thinking is so strange to most people. "That book is terrible","Oh, but looks at the ink fade on this page...how interesting." That a microcosm of what I think most people would find rather bizarre. The amount of time I spent thinking about how somebody pronounced a word or the rhythm of a wobbly leg on a table or the texture of a coin would probably be pretty unbelievable if I had some way of quantifying it.
This is twice as true with women. If they knew what was running through my head...*sigh* I don't know.
I saw a girl once with different shades of black socks. I remember thinking how pleasant her non-OCD was.
Whenever I see a girl with perfectly painted toe nails I wince. What's wrong with the natural pink? The uneveness of the white part of the nail says so much more...it's more beautiful.
I hate it when all of the pictures of a girl look as if she threw out 5 pics before picking the best one. The angles all start looking recycled and she comes as stale. It's the weird angled, half-blurred pictures that show her personality.
That's my gift and my curse with women: details. Details on details. When she speaks, I can hear if something from her or something she's learned. The way she swings her purse is from her or something she saw on 'Sex and the City'. Anything borrowed or forced is like that pristine book...no blurred ink, no frayed corners. Those words, those movements, those gestures haven't had enough time with her to really develop the right details. Details require authenticity, and eccentricity.
Like those frayed pages, sincerity is always fractured. It's imitation and performance that has that pristine, mass printed quality to it. Those toe nails that have uneven white endings tell a story where the painted toe nails just project an image. I hate images.
So, yes, I end up appreciating very small things that others miss, but, I also end up despising little things that others miss. The thickness of expensive foundation on her skin, that over-pronunciation of that french sound word, the OCD restraint in her writing, the child-like nostalgia that's her crutch for dealing with the world, the way she hums ever so softly because she'd dare sing any louder. I judge her for all of it. They all end up paining me.
Which is why I don't date normal girls. I'm too judgmental and have no way to explain it meaningfully. When flaws live in hand gestures and head tilts, when everything from a word choice to a random whim is a symptom of some bigger issue...it's not healthy. It's my secret I go through great lengths to never let her on to; how much I see.
I've heard some women in my life say that they wish their men understood them better. I'm not confident that would actually work out. These relationships largely work because there's an image of the women that exists in her man's mind and vice versa. Whenever the women doubts herself, she can look into her partner's eyes and see that image cast back at her. To, instead, have the details...good, bad, and ugly is a burden. That kind of nakedness and complexity is hard to find comforting. On paper, a person might yearn for someone to be able to "drop their guard with", but ultimately that's unconsciously much more about safety and non-judgement than honesty.
That's the thing with details; they complicate what needs to be simple. "Why don't you just read the book instead of staring at the corner of the cover?" Maybe I should...maybe I should start coloring the books properly too. But, I can't. It's not something I can shut off. The best I can do is just not share it with people and pretend it's not going on.