Id's Alive

If you could only hear the things my inner voice comes up with some times.

You know what I’m talking about, the subconscious, your Id. It is that little voice in your head that talks to those angels on your left shoulder and the devil on your right whether you are even aware of it or not. That constant dialogue with yourself detailing everything the senses sift from synapse to brain. It’s the inner influence that keeps poking at you constantly only to be silenced by deep sleep, a riveting movie, or tequila.

The Id, by Freud’s definition, is unconscious. Yet my inner voice has, at times, become distinctly animated over the last year.

(Oh, please spare them. You’re not going to blog about that time last summer, right?)

After a particularly stressful week of divorce issues, parent-teacher conferences, Non-Profit Board meetings, multiple work deadlines, kid schedule conflicts, the non-stop home chores ...

(Dude! Pssst. This is a bad idea.)

and a new fiancé of considerable excitement and focus, I found myself walking downtown talking to myself (my Id). I didn’t realize I was talking to myself. But, I was talking to myself. Outloud!

(Sorry. But you hadn’t been listening to me much. You were to swamped “doing” and not enough time “dealing”. Know what I mean?)

Sshh! Anyway, yeah, I found myself downtown dropping off paperwork to the lawyer. I took the opportunity to walk up a block to get some lunch. Unconsciously, I must have been talking to myself (you) outloud. As I walked passed these two college kids, one of them said to the other, “the homeless sure are dressing better these days!”

Laughing and snickering followed. I looked around to see what homeless person they were talking about.

(Breed ‘em and weep, my friend.)

Ah. Reality. Me!

(What are you doing?)

I’m leaving. I’m going home to go paint in blue, orange, and black with music turned up to ten. And I’ll sing. Maybe I’ll write. Never the less, Leave. Me. Alone.

(I am immune to your gentle Midwestern-Jedi mind flip and the waving of that hand in front of our nose saying, “You are no longer talking to me, eh.”)

A great idiocy in the force, there is.

(I’m still here and you are about to walk into a parking meter.)

Bite me! I wonder if I am out of tequila at home?

I blog to purge. It is better than talking to myself in public.