I would like to talk about an absurdity of which I've been dealing with lately.  I've been having a life altering conversation, melodramatic as all get out, with my brain.  I hope you already see the absurdity of this idea.  "My Brain" is essentially what makes "me" me, right?  The flesh and blood brain that holds the psychological concept of "My Brain" are one and the same, correct? So for the duration of this essay, ignore the reality imposed on existence by My Brain and Your Brain for a while.

You see, it's like this: for the duration of my stint here on earth (or Earth, for all those of you who may subscribe to the Gaia hypothesis), My Brain and the Lovely Miss L -- a personification of Loneliness which I distinctly remember creating at the age of six -- have been rather close companions.  She first appeared in my mind's eye in the guise of a dark haired eastern European woman with glasses -- heavily influenced by my infatuation with the cartoon character of the Baroness on G.I. Joe.  As I entered my teen years, Ms. L transmogrified into a cross between Christina Ricci and Janeane Garofalo.  Basically, Ms. L has always taken the form of whatever my boyish crushes were at any particular point in my life.  So what guise does she take these days? It's a  hybrid of Zooey Deschanel and Selma Hayek. 

Of course, the next question may be, "So why should I, as a reader of this dear blog, be concerned with such trivialities?"  And I would posit to you, "Because it's my blog, and you decided to read it."

But why have I thought it necessary to tell everyone my odd tendency to ascribe certain characteristics from celebrity crushes to an otherwise very staid personification of human emotion? It's easier for me to think in visual terms, which makes a lot of sense considering I've spent the bulk of my life pursuing a meaningful explanation of existence via the visual arts.  I am essentially a product of television and pixels.

So, after that rather brief exposition of sorts, here is a dialogue between My Brain and The Lovely Miss L., sitting at a rather trendy fold out table and chair set purchased from the fall 2008 Ikea catalog:

"Do you remember when you were seventeen and you had your first steady girl? You were so convinced you were rid of me."

"Yes, I remember.  You wouldn't leave me be.  I always felt your presence near us, like a ghost that wants to haunt someone, but loves them too much to actually do it."

"What do you know of 'love?' Your understanding of it is only based on rock songs that proclaim to be broken hearted. And you do realize, don't you, we are in the midst of a rather juvenile conversation?  You also used an incorrect pronoun to describe what was a singular entity.  You plurarized it."

"All points valid."

"So, my dear, why do you insist on keeping me around? What is it that requires you to be so near me?  I have attempted to leave you several times, but as any good friend would, I find it difficult to actually rend you from my life even though I should."

"But you have no life. You're a creation of my friggin' imagination."

"I could easily say 'ditto.' I won't -- even though I just did."

"I don't like your attempt at starting a circular conversation. STOP."

"You have complete control of us."

"That's true on a certain level. But when does one ever really have control over anything?"

"You control, rather intensely I might add, who you let in your inner circle."

"I do and I don't.  I suffer from a rather intense case of wall-building.  You know, analogous to Pink Floyd?"

"Yet another hackneyed musical reference.  But how does that wrest any level of control from your barrier-building? A musical recording, at its core, has no influence on anyone.  While it may affect emotions, a person has a say in how said emotions may or may not be expressed.  Basically, it serves as a 'suggestion' of what emotion you could possibly express."

"Someone had a bowl of hyperbole for breakfast, didn't she?"

"You're avoiding the subject. There have only been four distinct times in your life in which you let someone inside your, for lack of a better term, 'wall.'  I'll oblige and keep this PF reference going.  But don't tell me your pretentious enough to identify with the character Pink from the recordings."

"Not now, of course.  Unfortunately, there was a time when I would've immediately said 'yes.'  I would like to think I've progressed past the point of letting other's creative works define how I feel, Harold and Maude be damned."

"A fine film. I hear Zooey likes it."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"I made it up."

End conversation.

I've discovered that I've recently clambered into my "wall," or as I like to call it now, my "shell," once again.  What many do not realize, and it's a fact that could've saved many a relationship with me, is that I have streaks in which I withdraw into myself.  It's not that I avoid people for any specific reasons.  I sometimes just have to crawl back and recuperate.  It's a reconnection of sorts with my inner true self, if you want to get mystical about it.  Many, however, read it as a sign of disinterest and immediately assume my apparent distance is a sign things are going wrong.  I have never been able to successfully describe what is really going on to others.  I suppose this is a flaw I need to remedy if I wish to truly be rid of the personification of Lovely Miss L and the abstraction of My Brain.

I am simply a product of Manifest Destiny, the Protestant Work Ethic, and the RGB color spectrum.  I thought I'd try to end with something profound even though it's probably not.