Whenever I am consciously aware of my interior monologue I invariably think of Eugene O’Neill’s Pulitzer Prize-winning drama “Strange Interlude.” The reason, of course, is that the running dialogue I have going on in my head sometimes begs to be broadcast (decency & decorum & a continuing social order forbid it.)
But its immediacy–and relatively unedited scrolling of thought & impulse–a personal teleprompter if you will–pushes us to consider & clip & contain & ultimately convey meanings oftentimes not of our choosing.
It would be wonderful (I believe) to have the opportunity to let it out, as in “Strange Interlude” and turn to the audience/camera & really say what’s on your mind. & yes, it’s ripe for parody (via the Marx Brothers’ “Animal Crackers”) but what a relief (comic too) it would be to have that silent listening audience straining to hear your most private & mundane & scandalous (oh admit it, you have scandalous thoughts) & revelatory musings come tumbling out between your lips.
It would not be edifying, it would be fleeting, it would be a torrent of oftentimes useless, base, crass information, but what if, what if, just every so often, a bud of an idea, a flowering of creativity spilled out? Something maybe only one person could take to heart as if it were meant specifically for them & nurture it, & make it come to life (or it offers solace, or it makes them happy, or even, it makes them sad.)
When I am alone with my thoughts–in the car, walking the dogs, a time without interruption, they come in reaction to outside stimuli & inside dreams, fears, love–like a nougat to be savored (some stick between your teeth, others you swallow in one big gulp.)
Right now, what are you thinking?