![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Of all the things I hate, it’s being disconnected that makes me most afraid. The isolation and the inability to reach out to the network of social relationships that sketches out the shape of who I am. So when the technical support guy told me that they had cancelled my DSL installation without even ringing and asking me about it, all because some idiot data entry person had typed in the wrong digit, I could have screamed and broken down in tears. I had to literally tell myself to take a step back and drag my mind back into civilized dignity with all my stubbornness. Coz I’d been holding on so tightly to being able to talk to someone tonight, even via a screen. Ever since the paper slip they send around for packages with my room number on it came up, I’d known it was the modem. I could scream.
The same goes for my watch. Not having the time on my wrist leaves me lost in the shifting levels of Time. How can I know where I am or where I’m supposed to be if I don’t know when it is? So to add to the trouble for today, my watch strap broke. I figure the plastic just wasn’t coping with the repeated heat-cold stress. Plus the general stress of being forced through several layers of sleeves. You gotta love sticky tape. It also fixed the new padding for the heels of my boots.
I suppose on some level, every story you tell is your own. Perhaps not in the literal autobiographical sense, but in the sense of its inner truth. It’s deeper – from within the workings of your self and mind and soul. So tonight, instead of working out the proof for the optimality of my greedy algorithms, I fled from the real world and its emptiness, and spent my time wandering through other people’s stories, their lives, the characters that fill the worlds in their heads. Maybe that’s why I read so much and why I preferred reading to playing with other kids when I was younger. Books change your lives by sharing their stories. Other people just aren’t as interesting or accessible.
And a thought for those Christian churches who ban dragons and wizards and Harry Potter from their kids lives to save them from the devil. The emptiness and gritty worldliness of humanism is a far more dangerous enemy. I might never have found my way back if my love of reading hadn’t led me to wonder what mysteries might remain in the world. So to Charles de Lint, Emma Bull, Sharon Shinn… thank you.
Y’know, Rossi-mamma, you remind me of Jilly Coppercorn.
The same goes for my watch. Not having the time on my wrist leaves me lost in the shifting levels of Time. How can I know where I am or where I’m supposed to be if I don’t know when it is? So to add to the trouble for today, my watch strap broke. I figure the plastic just wasn’t coping with the repeated heat-cold stress. Plus the general stress of being forced through several layers of sleeves. You gotta love sticky tape. It also fixed the new padding for the heels of my boots.
I suppose on some level, every story you tell is your own. Perhaps not in the literal autobiographical sense, but in the sense of its inner truth. It’s deeper – from within the workings of your self and mind and soul. So tonight, instead of working out the proof for the optimality of my greedy algorithms, I fled from the real world and its emptiness, and spent my time wandering through other people’s stories, their lives, the characters that fill the worlds in their heads. Maybe that’s why I read so much and why I preferred reading to playing with other kids when I was younger. Books change your lives by sharing their stories. Other people just aren’t as interesting or accessible.
And a thought for those Christian churches who ban dragons and wizards and Harry Potter from their kids lives to save them from the devil. The emptiness and gritty worldliness of humanism is a far more dangerous enemy. I might never have found my way back if my love of reading hadn’t led me to wonder what mysteries might remain in the world. So to Charles de Lint, Emma Bull, Sharon Shinn… thank you.
Y’know, Rossi-mamma, you remind me of Jilly Coppercorn.
