That Terrible Syllable, NOW
Tomorrow's Cal's surgery, but I won't find out exactly when until four. My bowels and stomach are full of bile; I'm eating stuff just to drive other stuff through my body. "The Church in the Mountains" is up over 6,000+ words now, but I can't do much about it, because I'm rigid with general worry. Just have to bull through things, I guess, like always.
In other news, I met with one of my necklace customers on Monday, passing it over to her before she started her day at Bouchercon. We had an interesting chat during which she self-identified as Aspergian as well, and used terms I've stumbled across myself, when talking about the way I negotiate my way through the world. "It's like I have to design little algorithms and sub-routines for myself," she said, and I got an immediate flash of talking to my Mom on Sunday, telling her about an essay about Japanese folk horror movies I'd written. I was defining terms for her, telling her the movies I'd covered--Onibaba, Kuroneko, Kwaidan--before moving on to talk about the Mononoke anime, then the Japanese tradition of bathroom ghosts, etc. I remember having this moment where I began describing the kappa to her after having covered three other bathroom ghosts already, only to tell myself: Oh no, that's too much--you can give three examples in a row of something, but just three, no more. Because I could literally see her start to detach, this clear why would you think I want to know about this, exactly, Gemma? message beaming from her eyes.
It was an interesting intersection of our social scripts; she was trying really hard not to cut me off while I was trying to cut myself off, at exactly the same time. And this is the sort of thing I used to not be able to see, yet now can't stop myself from seeing--beats having to think about Cal's surgery every minute of the day, though. Which is useful.
Okay, that's about it. By this time tomorrow, Cal will hopefully be in recovery and Steve will be at home putting his loft-bed together, breaking down his old bed and getting it down to the loading dock, etc. Then the first week will go by, then the second, then he'll be all better, and so on. Nothing lasts long, in context; this, too, shall pass. I have to have faith in the pattern, not to mention my own ability to recognize it.
This entry was originally posted at https://handful-ofdust.dreamwidth.org/575857.html. Please comment either here or there using OpenID.
In other news, I met with one of my necklace customers on Monday, passing it over to her before she started her day at Bouchercon. We had an interesting chat during which she self-identified as Aspergian as well, and used terms I've stumbled across myself, when talking about the way I negotiate my way through the world. "It's like I have to design little algorithms and sub-routines for myself," she said, and I got an immediate flash of talking to my Mom on Sunday, telling her about an essay about Japanese folk horror movies I'd written. I was defining terms for her, telling her the movies I'd covered--Onibaba, Kuroneko, Kwaidan--before moving on to talk about the Mononoke anime, then the Japanese tradition of bathroom ghosts, etc. I remember having this moment where I began describing the kappa to her after having covered three other bathroom ghosts already, only to tell myself: Oh no, that's too much--you can give three examples in a row of something, but just three, no more. Because I could literally see her start to detach, this clear why would you think I want to know about this, exactly, Gemma? message beaming from her eyes.
It was an interesting intersection of our social scripts; she was trying really hard not to cut me off while I was trying to cut myself off, at exactly the same time. And this is the sort of thing I used to not be able to see, yet now can't stop myself from seeing--beats having to think about Cal's surgery every minute of the day, though. Which is useful.
Okay, that's about it. By this time tomorrow, Cal will hopefully be in recovery and Steve will be at home putting his loft-bed together, breaking down his old bed and getting it down to the loading dock, etc. Then the first week will go by, then the second, then he'll be all better, and so on. Nothing lasts long, in context; this, too, shall pass. I have to have faith in the pattern, not to mention my own ability to recognize it.
This entry was originally posted at https://handful-ofdust.dreamwidth.org/575857.html. Please comment either here or there using OpenID.