If somebody (for whatever reason) was given the task of trying to understand how I think or who I am (or was);(although why anyone would want to do such a thing I cannot imagine) how would they go about the task ? Bearing in mind modern security warnings regarding identity theft there are clearly many ways to go about this endeavour but I am approaching it from the perspective of the individual wishing to lead "an examined life" as opposed to that of a potential stalker sizing up his next target. If you are a stalker however this may well be of help to you and if you are contemplating identity theft I would seriously reconsider your choice of individual. Incidentally now that all our personal details have been so generously distributed by our own government if you are seeking financial security it must be pointed out that there is very little money actually in my bank account. It was however empty before they lost the discs with the details on them. You are free to take over the debts though if you want.
It is said that if you look at somebody's bookshelf you can get an idea of their character. Does this also apply to the polymath or the renaissance man - adept at a multitude of tasks and skilled in them all? What does Stephen Fry's library look like ? Millions of books in front of you or just a select few ? Could it not mean that the person is just a book collector ? How they are organised gives the investigator another clue ; strict alphetical order, in dewey-decimal ranking or just a lumping of all the blue covered books together. (Or worse - a combination of everything) What does that signify ? Do we see the glimmerings of an obsessive personality ? Are the books annotated ? Do they look well-thumbed ? (Although I can't say I use my thumbs much when reading.) Are the favourite books separated ? Which books are next to the bed ? Which books are on the desk ?
Are there any diaries, notebooks, letters ? In this electronic age is there a laptop with an online diary or a blog (hastily written, in snatched episodes whilst supposed to be working) ? Emails saved in bizarrely-named folders, paintings or posters on the walls, objets d'art or just found materials scavenged from interesting walks along the river bank. Is there a special place where the individual "nested" ; a den where the person could surround themselves with the necessities of life like music, coffee or the regalia of past endeavours both successful or not ? The old baseball glove, the juggling balls, (the deduction of meaning). Consider the samurai sword and tea set bought whilst seduced in the middle of reading Shogun and brought down from the attic after watching "Kill Bill".
Do the shelves illustrate a past history of collecting and interests - endless possibilities from gardening books to cooking books, from tropical fish to almost every sort of art and craft imaginable. Even the boxes of bookmarks including those small leather types which say something like "Welcome to Conisbrough Castle". In other words Where have you been ? Clearly as I write I picture somebody watching me trying to imagine what I am like. To see yourself as others see you is a difficult project. Am I a butterfly flitting from idea to idea with no purpose or future or goal ? Or is everything linked in some vast cosmic network that at some point in time will come together, will slot into place with a vigorous and exquisitely screamed Eureka.
I am unsure exactly how many people out there in cyberspace can, could, would or will even read this. Nor is this the reason for its writing. Neither am I sure what that reason is though. I feel like writing. I know I am not really confident enough to advertise it beyond simply leaving it out there exposed (freudian choice of word) for the universe to read. I keep hoping an interesting comment might be wending its way towards me to reassure myself I am not simply talking to myself but then again in the nature of the examined life that might be highly desirable. Perhaps one day I may even surprise myself. Can one surprise oneself ? or can only others do that to you (or for you) and the madness comes steadily, stealthily closer. Muttering to itself whilst you sit there writing a conversation with yourself.
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