The State of the Brainmeat
When I am quiet for a long time, I feel like I must apologize for not having written. I have to make a sheepish list of all of the places I've been that I haven't written about: LA, Philadelphia, Toronto, Detroit, Washington DC. I have seen great shows, including Godflesh and Kraftwerk. I have read interesting books, including Palimpsest (by Catherynne M. Valente, which is exactly the sort of thing that people who know me think I would like) and The Invention of Air, by Stephen Johnson, which I read because I liked The Ghost Map so much. If you have not yet read the third trade paperback of Saga or started listening to Chvrches, then you are three months behind and you must catch up immediately so that we can talk about these things. We're just going to end up sitting around talking about this season of Game of Thrones if you don't.
Is it sad that when people ask me what I'm doing, my first instinct is to tell them about what I'm reading? Is it any better if I tell them where I'm traveling to, or where I'm just returning from? Is it sadder if I talk about work? Is it sadder if I don't go out at all and no one asks me these questions because I stay home worrying about my inability to make ordinary conversation?
I took a few months to get my brainmeats in order, and so far I am cautiously optimistic about the results. Life is not noticeably better than it was a few months ago: my grandmother still falls and breaks both of her arms, my less-healthy cat has suffered from a variety of troubles that will require surgery, I had to cancel my annual circus retreat in the Dominican Republic. But none of these things feels like the end of the world. And it is an immense relief to feel as if I have some emotional resilience again.
My life is not all conferences. J and I have been hosting elaborate dinner parties on Sundays. We've had 20 lbs of crawfish flown in from Louisiana for a crawfish boil. We've made our own dim sum and enormous pans of paella. I've purchased a book of Venetian recipes I want to try out. I've been running a lot--running is something I can do in hotel gyms. I still hate running more than any other form of exercise, but I have not found a suitable alternative to high impact interval training. I have made some progress on my center splits, which I had not thought was possible.
Okay, so my life is all conferences. I had my first Guest of Honor gig at a conference in Detroit. The cliche about Midwesterners being nice is a cliche because it's true. The conference organizers stocked my hotel room with berries and hummus and pita chips. They made me pistachio ice cream, because I mentioned that I liked it. They printed "Outrage Fairy" badge ribbons for me to give out. I took part in a panel about geek culture and feminism in which no one asked any painfully stupid questions. And when it was all over, the conference chairman took me on a tour of Detroit that included its crumbling Art Deco train station and cavernous potholes and ruined mansions and empty streets, but also its up-and-coming neighborhoods and gleaming Quicken Loans skyscrapers.
"You could buy a 10-bedroom mansion with a ballroom here," he tells me. "Not that I'd know what to do with a ballroom."
"Are you kidding? Throw balls!"
Everyone I talked to told me that they lived in Detroit because their close-knit community was important to them and they could not find that anywhere else. I did my best to honor that by not being that asshole tourist who takes photos of ruin porn.
It is good to be home. It is good to sleep in my own bed, next to J and the cats. I have a lot of adventure in my life, which is makes that much more comforting to come home to a routine, to peace and order, to touching up the paint in Bunker 3 and shopping for rugs.
Now we just need a ballroom, right?
Is it sad that when people ask me what I'm doing, my first instinct is to tell them about what I'm reading? Is it any better if I tell them where I'm traveling to, or where I'm just returning from? Is it sadder if I talk about work? Is it sadder if I don't go out at all and no one asks me these questions because I stay home worrying about my inability to make ordinary conversation?
I took a few months to get my brainmeats in order, and so far I am cautiously optimistic about the results. Life is not noticeably better than it was a few months ago: my grandmother still falls and breaks both of her arms, my less-healthy cat has suffered from a variety of troubles that will require surgery, I had to cancel my annual circus retreat in the Dominican Republic. But none of these things feels like the end of the world. And it is an immense relief to feel as if I have some emotional resilience again.
My life is not all conferences. J and I have been hosting elaborate dinner parties on Sundays. We've had 20 lbs of crawfish flown in from Louisiana for a crawfish boil. We've made our own dim sum and enormous pans of paella. I've purchased a book of Venetian recipes I want to try out. I've been running a lot--running is something I can do in hotel gyms. I still hate running more than any other form of exercise, but I have not found a suitable alternative to high impact interval training. I have made some progress on my center splits, which I had not thought was possible.
Okay, so my life is all conferences. I had my first Guest of Honor gig at a conference in Detroit. The cliche about Midwesterners being nice is a cliche because it's true. The conference organizers stocked my hotel room with berries and hummus and pita chips. They made me pistachio ice cream, because I mentioned that I liked it. They printed "Outrage Fairy" badge ribbons for me to give out. I took part in a panel about geek culture and feminism in which no one asked any painfully stupid questions. And when it was all over, the conference chairman took me on a tour of Detroit that included its crumbling Art Deco train station and cavernous potholes and ruined mansions and empty streets, but also its up-and-coming neighborhoods and gleaming Quicken Loans skyscrapers.
"You could buy a 10-bedroom mansion with a ballroom here," he tells me. "Not that I'd know what to do with a ballroom."
"Are you kidding? Throw balls!"
Everyone I talked to told me that they lived in Detroit because their close-knit community was important to them and they could not find that anywhere else. I did my best to honor that by not being that asshole tourist who takes photos of ruin porn.
It is good to be home. It is good to sleep in my own bed, next to J and the cats. I have a lot of adventure in my life, which is makes that much more comforting to come home to a routine, to peace and order, to touching up the paint in Bunker 3 and shopping for rugs.
Now we just need a ballroom, right?