carose59: the rose behind the fence (Default)
[personal profile] carose59
"She Was Not A Fiddler, She Was A Lady Violinist. I Was Her Beau."*-:- -:- -:- -:-

I decided to try to eat better, particularly in the morning to maybe stave off my panic attacks. To this end, I hardboiled a dozen eggs. Hardboiled eggs are easy and the only preparation they require is the removal of their shells.

And it's been going really well, except for the echoey thing in my head.

I remember words. Mostly dialogue, but also song lyrics and poems and actual conversations I had with real people. It's triggered by certain words or combinations of words or just the rhythm of certain phrases.

For instance, there's a scene in Casablanca where Victor Laszlo tells Major Strasser that he could never support the Nazis. "You see," he says, "I am a Czechoslovakian."**

And the way he says it, his inflection, requires me to quote Peter Warne (Clark Gable) in It Happened One Night. He tells Ellie Andrews (Claudette Colbert) that her virtue is perfectly safe on the other side of the room—which he as divided with a blanket hanging from a rope. He declare it as sturdy as the walls of Jericho because, "You see, I have no trumpet." And he says it with exactly the same inflection.

I'm calling my diet a special hardboiled egg diet because on The Dick Van Dyke Show, Buddy tells them he's on a special hardboiled egg diet. It's just there in my head and I have to say it.

But the part that's driving me a little crazy(er) is A Night at the Opera. Because also as soon as I think two hardboiled eggs, there's the sound of Harpo's horn, followed by Groucho saying, "Make that three hardboiled eggs." Because it's there in my head and it just falls out whenever it's triggered by real life.

I wonder if this is related to earworm music. I get that, too. Right now Bob Dylan keeps repeating, "The pump don't work 'cause the vandals took the handle." That's not bad; when I think of it deliberately, it makes me laugh. The worst one I ever had was the song the children in the school sing in the The Birds when the crows are massing behind Tippi Hedren. The problem was, I wasn't hearing the words, just the tune—and I couldn't figure out what the hell it was! This was in high school, before the internet, when the most you could hope for was that you knew the right people who you could quote the words to and they'd tell you what the song was—but that only worked when you had words to quote! (I actually did have a friend good enough that I could go up to him and say, "Da-dunt, da-dunt, da-da-da-da-dun—what is that?" and he understood what I was talking about, though I don't think he recognized it. It finally came to me.

I find that the best cure for an earworm is to feed it. I listen to the song over and over until it's burned out of my brain.

While I was writing this, I looked up earworms on wikipedia, and they say musicians and people with OCD are more likely to have issues. I fall into both categories, a little. I'm certainly not musical, but I write by rhythm. And I'm what I call Comfort OCD. There are things I like to do in certain ways because the pattern-ness of the activity makes me happy—like hanging my clothes out on the line with the socks matched up. But if I can't do it that way due to time restraints, it doesn't upset me.

*Jonas Clay
**I just needed you to know that I spelled Czechoslovakian right the first time without looking it up. On the other hand, I left the h out of Jericho and had to look it up. Batting .500.
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