Some people assume I have always talked to myself.

My wife likes to tell the story of walking into the kitchen one morning early in our marriage and asking:

What are you doing?
Nothing, really.
You were waving your arms.
Oh. I was lecturing.
To who?
Hmm. The toaster, I think.

I remember exactly when I started talking to myself.
I was 12 and sitting all alone at a window seat on a crowded bus.

Earlier that spring, at school, as the result of some extreme creativity not encumbered by the least bit of common sense, I had broken my left arm. The accident splintered the humerus into several fragments and badly damaged the radial nerve serving the top side of my arm. As a result, I lost most of the feeling and muscle control of my left arm beneath the elbow and the top of my left hand. While the ER doctor was trying to set the bone without any pain killers, but with the jagged bone grinding down upon the nerve, I learned the meaning of pain; the next 6 months of physical therapy would teach me even more about pain, but also the meaning of perseverance. The experience remains the third or fourth most painful experience of my life. Because extreme pain pulls you into yourself, it is inherently isolating and lonely; for me, perseverance is also nested in loneliness.
Unlike my previous hospitalizations, which had been for my epilepsy, the broken arm was something tangible, physical and manageable, so there were things I could do; I could own and work at a broken arm. It also helped that I could earn tips smuggling beer, wine, cigars and cigarettes into the injury ward, and that the men I was with looked out for me.
My parents also helped me with this, both by being very supportive and by encouraging me to take ownership of my own healing (also by not dwelling on how serious this was and the possibility I might never regain use of that arm). After I had come home from the hospital, my dad sat me down and explained that my brother could not be left alone in the afternoons, and that I would have to learn to take the bus, by myself, clear across town twice a week for physical therapy.

Several weeks later, I remember being on the bus on the way home, and feeling terribly lonesome for somebody to share the bus ride with me. I was proud of my independence, and knew I could manage, but the long solitude of the rides and the waiting rooms wore on me. I am not sure that I am exactly an extrovert, but most people who know me will point out that I certainly am talkative, and not having anyone to talk to is difficult for me.
Out of my desperate need for someone to talk to, I suddenly realized that I could have a conversation with myself. It might strike some people as odd that I had never considered this before, but I was the youngest of a talkative family and shared a room with my brother, and so getting solitude had always been more of a concern than getting company.
The dialogue that started then and continued for decades tended to be between two sides of myself—the more emotional, dreamy part of me and the more rational, logical, controlled part. This is a pretty natural division within me, and also was good for this situation, since the emotional part of me was scared and lonely and the rational side of me was reassuring. As the years went by, it was also handy, since the rational side of me tended to be my conscience and also more cautious and sensible. It is a conversation, an internal dialogue, that has continued now for more than 3 decades.

Yes, there is almost always a dialogue going on in my head, and always at least one song playing. Most of the time, there is also some drama; there is at least one—often several—really strong emotions wrestling it out beneath the visible surface—anger, passion, desire, despair, joy, grief, and a lot of affection. There is usually, some food, too. It is like having a rather bizarre (and poorly lit) Café every hour that I am awake.

So, because I have a really bad case of writers block, I decided to start blogging, and to see if externalizing the dialogue would get me going. When Brandon suggested that the blog be “Robert’s Philosophy Bistro,” the idea was perfect. It still is, and, believe it or not, this is the 20th Entrée.

Thank you for dropping by, feel free to leave a question, can I get you a menu?