Nothing Important

This week I heard from an old friend and asked him why he was avoiding social media these days. In his younger days he jabbered all the time, talking about this or that. In his older days, meaning after his 70th birthday, he still had lots to say, but it was more reserved. And now, without warning, he’s gone silent. I asked him why he had turned on his mute button, and he said that he didn’t have anything to say. Yikes, that hit home because having nothing to say doesn’t seem to stop me. I don’t really have much to say most days and my thoughts are random, but golly, gee, who cares?


I used to worry about those sorts of things, like what would people think, or whether I had enough matter in my dwindling brain to make sense, but those inhibitions are long gone. Someone recently asked me what subject I could talk about for forty minutes without preparation, my answer, “Anything. These days I can talk about anything.” I’m sure she thought I was arrogant, but it’s simple, really, let me explain.


Someone gives me some subject, let’s say, nuclear power, of which I know nothing specifically or even generally, but one time I saw a nuclear power something, not sure what, which happened to be in the cold and dark town of Nome, Alaska, so off I go, rambling on about the cold, dark, iciness of the world or as I’ve said before, the land the sun forgot. Remember the question was what subject I could talk about for forty minutes, not what subject I was an expert in. However, I seem to be an expert in rambling mindlessly, which was sometimes the sole purpose of my school teaching lectures and now in my writing.


Today is a perfect example, I’m writing about nothing in the vein of Seinfeld. Life is about the little things that happen to us, not the large life events. For example, a large event is like having a baby or going on vacation, which happen once in a while. The rest of our time is filled with mundane, routine activities, like taking out the garbage, sweeping the floor, and waiting on hold for someone to answer my call because “your time is important to us.” My brothers have told me numerous times that I ramble a lot, and I take that as a compliment, because they are much more focused than I and actually make sense when they talk. I, on the other hand, can talk about whatever is rattling in my brain, not needing to focus on anything in particular. It’s a gift.


Being able to talk about nothing has its advantages. I can blather aimlessly at my own pace, and no one cares. I just send words to a paper and let ‘er rip. Gotta go, the phone is jiggling in my pocket. Maybe it’s Publisher’s Clearinghouse, which would be a big event or maybe it’s a wrong number, one of many in my ho-hum daily life.


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