Hi, Bear.
I'm a recovering blurter. This is my six-week anniversary. Yep, a whole month-and-a-half without blurting.
(smattering of applause)
This wholly imaginary scene occurred to me today as I was recalling the situations I've gotten myself into by blurting (i.e. suddenly saying something without regard to future implications or veracity).
The first thing I was known for by our new friends in Amsterdam was not blurting. I got known among our best friends for my recitation of Peg Letters. My mother was a terrific correspondent. She wrote to all four of her then adult children prolifically. Two or three single-spaced typed pages every fortnight, I'd estimate. Turns out that my Mom's way of speaking, with plenty of associated sidebars and cul-de-sacs and stories about friend's daughter's new girlfriend and the fascinating thesis the new girlfriend was writing, etc etc, was also her way of writing. My reading these "Peg Letters" aloud seemed to provide lots of entertainment for both our American and Dutch friends who were lucky enough to be in Bob's and my home when the mail arrived.
But the second thing people began to associate with me back then (in my early 20's) was my fascination with dreams and dreaming. In the middle of a conversation with a group of friends I would suddenly hear or say something that would trigger the memory of a recent, far out dream and I would (now cringing a bit at the memory) scoop up everyone's attention while I told the story of that remembered dream.
The blurt I associate with this dream recitation thang of mine went like this: Our friends Elsje and Dirk were visiting. Bob and I were getting pretty good at keeping the conversation in Dutch, or at least Engutch (or Dutchish?). Elsje said something about her bicycle and that was all it took. I suddenly had a technicolor, total start-to-finish, wild and crazy dream to share. So I stopped the conversations, turning my head to the assembled, I fear more than a little full of myself with pleasurable anticipation, and just as I was about to launch into it, it completely disappeared from my mind. Gone.
A non-blurter (that I may someday be) would simply have apologized for the interruption, admitted that my mind was blank, and on with the show. But when blurting meets an inflated self-image, uh-oh.
With my hands all ready for picturesque gesticulation, my eyes quickly restored to twinkle mode, I launched into a detailed and animated "re"telling of a dream that I was completely making up on the spot. I told myself that this one was as valid as any other story that just bubbled up from my subconscious and my o so fertile imagination. Dear reader, you'll be glad to know that two weeks after this blurt, I swallowed my pride and told our friends what actually had transpired.
A memorable blurt that I had to live with for four straight days was when I'd been gifted a transcontinental train trip from Toronto to Vancouver. All aboard! Comfortable seats! Good sleepers. And just before departure, a nice young couple of preppy semi-hippies came along and sat opposite me. I occupied myself for awhile, my nose buried in a guidebook or something, but it didn't take long before it was time for a conversation.
What was I thinking?!? When the guy asked if he was correctly discerning a slight accent (and I was in North America on a visit from my Amsterdam home), instead of simply speaking the simple truth, I just had to blurt that I was a grad student from Denmark.
Oy. Oy. And oy. I had a Danish friend in Holland. I was patting myself on the back with the quality of my Danish accent as I got to know the friendly couple. I was convincing myself of my new identity, I was so enthralled, so into it! But. Oh yeah. I still had four days with these folks and I was in over my head. And the way I started, there was so little overlap with this imaginary Danish grad student's life and my own, I had to spend those days creating stories about things I scarcely knew anything about (O why did I have to say I was doing graduate studies in Anthropology??).
I tried to change his personality by baby steps, having him become a taciturn, mostly quiet kind of Dane, but I could never stick with that, big mouth that I am. I almost broke out into a Danish folk dance for joy when we crossed into British Columbia. I must have been heady with excitement at the thought of my soon-to-come liberation.
I just know that in doing an elaborate "final monologue" to this kind and friendly couple, I got so caught up in the story that it was only when the young woman began looking at me quizzically that I realized that I was forgetting to include the accent. While I probably went bright red (as I am wont to do in such circumstances), not a stitch was dropped in the narrative. Hansel's accent just came back.
Good-bye, Hansel.