Hello friends. Another conversation with no real topic. But may as well write for a bit.
There’s a class of people out there that enjoy conversations with no set topic, right? Well they usually label it “small talk” and I wonder why it works.
Of course, there’s another class which detests small talk. They only want deep and real everlasting conversations. Though in my experience this seems to be a euphemism for depressing and heavy topics about drama or irritations, misgivings.
Of the two groups I would side with the small-talkers. Frankly, I think the superficial are the superlative specimen, no? They tend toward experience which is the domain of sages. It’s a bold claim but there’s a lot to distill from our sun-tanned monks about the coast. They’re probably a whole lot closer to something transcendental than sitting cross-legged on the duvet smearing ice cream around.
Yes, the small-talkers small talked their way into my heart, and now I can’t abandon them. Nor let them down. If anyone wants to venture deeper, they’ll have to drag me!
Though I suppose sometimes sideliner questions could be interpreted as “deep” depending on the purveyed. Innocent questions about constellations could be met with a scoff: how tone deaf are you to pull us out of our saunter and into the strange plane out there! Contemplating the stars can be a sobering or depressing affair, depending on what Act you’re in today.
Not only is the standard of small talk ambiguous, so is its effectiveness. Sometimes when I speak I can tell the other person isn’t really interested in what I’m saying. Sometimes I wonder how I ended up speaking. It doesn’t bother me anymore – in fact, I sort of thank for them for their glazed expression: they’re being honest with me!
Would you rather deal with someone who never shares what they’re really feeling, or someone who play-acts perfectly? Be careful here… you may shudder when the heaviness of one’s Role registers. Whether the dutiful wife or the dotted child so each must remember their lines more often than not.
Would you still love me if I was fat?
I mean, the truth can be pretty brutal, can’t it? It can be, but it’s also pretty beautiful and liberating: peering into the structure of things. A glazed expression, to me, is an opportunity. It states plainly: how would you like to proceed? It’s not the most smooth maneuver to suddenly stop talking, but at least I feel comfortable dropping the subject.
With deeper conversations you may inevitably get fixated on a point and you’ll dig your bloodied nails into their arm until you reach it. If you can’t see the glazed face you’ll find it in your mirror hours later wondering why you cared so much.
To be understood!
And then what?
See, the small-talkers know how it all works subconsciously. They’re thirty three steps ahead and we’re still tripping over the pebbles here.
The small-talkers know it’s not the contents of the conversation but almost everything around it. Everything else is what matters besides the words. Letting sand in between your toes and the gentle airy whispers leading you toward a sunset of one’s mind, a sway into the haze of a balmy evening.
Words and their meaning have their uses of course. Perhaps in battle rooms. Perhaps in places where a decision actually occurs.
Oh you small-talkers just know humanity too well. When has a decision ever occurred for the vast majority of conversations? Opinions exchanged, displeasures gained, but decisions? No, only who to blame!
See, small-talkers make sure all the decisions were already made with the things they’d care about from a get-together: venue, menus, views and an airport bar sort of smoke to masquerade their clever selves. Their cleverness they’ll profess doesn’t exist! Humble ones.
Just the tone of someone talking disengages any tense shoulder with enough hisses and hums. Words in writing certainly carry their meaning, but the small-talkers let the phonetics carry everyone through the moments. Let the sounds rewrite the mood until one is certainly lost in a conversation for conversation’s sake! Certainly lost in how they’re saying anything at all. But the words flow out, each imbued and aligned as a stairwell toward lighter hearts and finer nights.
That’s why the parasol seating exists! Why would you sit under a parasol for anything else, anything else other than the pigeons about! Their coo as an avenue toward ambient paradise. Form above all else!
You know what’s a real bummer about deep conversations, but I suppose what makes me love them too?
The same as an avalanche so they suffocate potential pathways – so they turn an exploration into a destination. Points of no return: each word uttered a crystal melded and shunning off a thousand other choices.
Points of no return can be scary, but I rather quite like them, and I’ll tell you why: you can either learn to love them or suffocate in the snow.
What was the last conversation you had which was a point of no return?
Sometimes I like to think these conversations are a point-of-no-return, but there’s not necessarily that much at risk, nor necessarily that much changed, unless I’m weaseling my way into your mind and altering your trajectory. I don’t think that’s the case: you seem plenty determined to live as you want and I hope you do.
You have to learn to love points-of-no-return because it teaches a divine lesson: you can only step forward. And the more you learn to look toward the dying light rather than the shuttered doors of prior daylight you won’t know despair. You’ll wrap around the whole world and be right where you left off, you know.
I look forward to leaning on you in a 19th century opium den once again, my silent friend.
톡톡해 자주해 달콤한 얘기. ( ´ω`)