And I'll slide my feet up and down the wall
Over the last few weeks, in between espousing the virtues of consistency (and cursing myself about this proclamation when I find myself writing on a Sunday evening, again) I have been thinking a lot about sincerity.
Since writing my last post, I have been thinking A Lot about sincerity.
I spent a large part of my adult life being both frustrated that I was not being taken seriously enough, yet also being completely and utterly incapable of being serious enough or sincere enough to be taken seriously.
It was a very strange way to treat myself and others - I am now a bit more aware that being told repeatedly ‘I do not know if you are being serious or not’ is not necessarily a good thing. At all.
(I also remember having a lot of fun and laughing a lot etc. I do not yearn to be eternally po-faced from birth)
Before this turns into a self-flagellation festival (it is the Lord’s day, after all), I’m not looking to punish myself for this, although I think I deserved a kick in the shins a few times.
It does sort of make sense, when I think about it.
Growing up where I did (ye olde Brexit land), sincerity wasn’t really in vogue. I don’t think it is still either, although I have been away for a good while now. I don’t think it’s particularly high on the agenda here either.
Tall poppy syndrome, another wonderful thing the British exported to the world.
Why the fear of being sincere?
Was it that I would be seen as taking myself too seriously?
Or perhaps even worse, to be seen as being earnest - truly a heinous crime.
This is bullshit, of course - I would have likely loved to have been seen as both of those things, or maybe even a tortured soul (I definitely auditioned for this part a number of times).
No, the real reason is that it would have taken a decent amount of vulnerability on my part. Something which I was not willing to share with anyone - at least not until I had had about 15 drinks and the mushy (*messy) stuff started.
Which brings me back to last week’s post.
Normally, I just press send and my post goes into the universe unless there is a glaring error or grammatical blunder that even I have managed to spot on a re-read*. I normally do not really think too much about the posts after they go out, but the last one left me feeling a bit, well, queasy.
I felt a bit exposed, in all honesty. That I had let a bit too much out.
Or to put it in a 2019 meme
Who’s to say.
For every nice message I get about a post I write (and I sincerely -there’s that word again- appreciate everyone who reads and comments) , I do also have thoughts of people reading this and saying:
‘What is Richard trying to pull here? I remember him downing a bottle of Mad Dog 20-20, barking like a dog and then passing out on a couch. And now he wants to talk about NEEDS AND WANTS?’
The brain is a bastard of a thing.
Maybe I just want to be taken seriously.
I sincerely mean that.
Before I go, 2 things:
If you haven’t subscribed, please do below. It’s free! Tell a friend too if you like, as a late Richmas Present to me.
2. I absolutely adored this piece in the Guardian Australia by Helen Garner, a national treasure. Now 80, she talks about happiness in her inimitable style.
It exists all right, it will be given to you, but it’s fluid, it’s evasive, it’s out of reach. It’s something you glimpse in the corner of your eye until one day you’re up to your neck in it. And before you’ve had time to take a big gasp and name it, it’s gone.
Onwards,
Richard
*(Side note - I had a conversation with my Mother in Law a few months ago in which I told her I do not remember being taught grammar outside of some rudimentary rules. If anyone who is reading this went to school with me, can you confirm this? I dread the thought of her reading my butchering of the English language, but I want to have a half-hearted defence).
Thank you for reading - it means a lot. For more info on my professional work, please visit www.richardbrowne.com.au
