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mistytpednaem · 3 years

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So, what’s up with Another Me?

Honestly, I tried to draft this post, but the mental block made me decide to just go for it stream-of-consciousness style. Which I hope doesn’t bode poorly or anything. But here goes!

The Past and the Present

As you may know, I’ve been at this for a while now! Since 2014, in fact. In that time, I’ve gotten through the prologue and... most of chapter one (fun fact: I do have the entirety of this story mapped out! We are transitioning into what should be the final scene of this chapter. Originally, I wanted to make this post - or something along these lines - once I finished the chapter, but I figured since the year was about to end I’d be better off doing it now).

Now, let’s not mince words: that is a long time. I have six chapters total (not counting the prologue) mapped out for this comic, and there is more I’d like to do beyond it (what I like to call Arc 2, or, as you may or may not know: The Part Where My Pet Character Marco Evangelisti Actually Shows Up). If I keep going at the current pace, I will probably not be done within my lifetime. So, if I’m aware of this, what gives?

... I mean, damn. There’s a lot I could point to; I was finishing my degree until 2016, and I suppose that takes something out of you. I have unreasonably high expectations for myself, as the people closest to me know. “2020 was a bad year for everyone,” I tell myself, before I also go on to say, “but even though updates slowed down even more this year, it’s not like they’ve been particularly speedy for the past couple of years, and I haven’t had that bad of a year anyway, so that’s a shoddy excuse.” And then some semblance of reasonable thought comes over me and reminds me my grandfather had a stroke in March of last year and passed away in early June of this year, and I’m like “I mean, okay, I guess I’ve been through SOME things.”

But lighthearted reflections aside, there are more actionable problems I have identified - such as, in an overarching sense, my attitude. My friends made me realise this some time late last year, and while I’ve been trying to work on it, I have to admit I’ve made very little progress: at some point, I developed a seriously unhealthy relationship with my art. Here is how my workflow has tended to go:

Start scripting update. I have a small readership, but that’s okay; I am grateful for every suggestion, I can work with this, and I AM building towards something that excites me.

Script done, regardless of insecurities. It’s time to start working on the actual panels. This sketch didn’t come out exactly the way I intended, but hopefully it still works (alternatively: this sketch looks promising! I am excited about this sketch. Sometimes, I do feel happy with my sketches).

Oh dear. I was hoping the lineart would help a little (alternatively: oh dear. the lineart completely ruined this perfectly fine sketch). Maybe it’ll still look alright with colour?

Oh no. I hate it, actually. I suppose I’m too sloppy; I should be more careful next time.

(Repeat for however many panels i have planned for an update, typically with mounting guilt the longer I take on each one, because I keep taking longer and longer and, to my eyes, there is no improvement.)

Well, as my friends keep reminding me, done is better than perfect. Let’s post it!

The update is posted to a small readership and a quiet response, which, again, is okay, but leaves me wanting for feedback that I cannot get because I am reluctant to spread the word for several reasons, one of them being that I’ve convinced myself my work isn’t good enough.

Rinse and repeat, with the process continuing to be slow - if not turning exponentially slower - because apparently when things make you feel bad your brain starts wanting to protect you from them.

Apologies if this is a little harsh, but it is genuinely the most sincere breakdown of The Whole Deal that I can produce.

The good news is there are things I can do about this! Not easy things, granted, as they tie deeply into a lot of the recurring neuroses in my life, but in theory, the more I embrace imperfection, and the less I worry, the faster I should be able to work, and I should start getting some serotonin out of the whole thing again. In theory. This is not the only issue, however, and I have good and bad news about the other issue I’ve identified:

I don’t think the forum adventure format is working in its current shape.

It’s not about the suggestions - I love working with suggestions! Reader interaction is fun, it’s already shaped a good number of things and I hope it continues to do so. It’s more of a matter of visibility. Tragically, forums are not the most In Vogue things these days, and that reflects itself in, well, poor visibility. I’ve tried to remedy this by allowing suggestions through MSPFA, Tumblr and Twitter as well, but honestly, it hasn’t helped much. I think I’ve only gotten one or two suggestions through MSPFA? And don’t get me wrong, I’m sure this is in great part because of my passive role in getting the word out! But it’s all contributing towards this strange, shrinking spiral of a feedback loop.

The good news is that, since I have identified this problem, there should be an actionable solution. The bad news is I’m not quite sure what form that solution should take just yet.

The Future

Whew, that was a lot. So, what’s in store for 2021 and beyond?

Well, er, like I’ve implied, I’m a little unsure. But that’s my default state of existence, so let’s go over what I think.

When I finish chapter one, I would like to find a proper hosting place for AM. As I said, I don’t think the forum thing is quite working out, and MSPFA is a wonderful website, but I feel AM has little to do with most of the content on it beyond the second-person narration and the script-style dialogues. Whether that means a change in format is needed along with the change in hosting, I’m not sure; I would like to keep the whole “one panel per page with text underneath it” deal, which... should be doable on most places, but in this current year, I’m frankly not sure how it would come across, haha.

(I’m also not sure what this hosting place should be, mind you; potentially a wordpress blog with a layout tailored for comics, but drawing isn’t actually my day job, so I’m not sure how viable paying for a domain name might be. Or hosting, for that matter, should I need it - but imgur has been friendly enough of an image host so far.)

What I do know is that I want to keep the suggestions, even though I’m not entirely sure how well that will work without a forum structure. Comments on a post, perhaps? Maybe. But we can’t forget that this doesn’t solve one of the other big issues, which is my reluctance to advertise. And there’s still, you know, my unhealthy, unreasonably high standards affecting my entire workflow.

... But that all kind of comes back to one thing, doesn’t it? The fear of taking the plunge? That’s what I need to overcome. Plans are a good first step, but they mean nothing if I don’t act on them. Which is part of the reason I’m talking about all this - so people can hold me to my plans.

(Plus, like, offer feedback and opinions. That’s very valuable too.)

This whole Future section is a whole lot more uncertain than, I think, even I hoped for when I started writing this post. But I hope what I’m trying to say comes across in some kind of way - not just in the sense of this being elucidating (which, don’t get me wrong, hopefully it is!), but also as far as conveying my feelings to my friends and readers is concerned.

I’m going to keep trying, and I know I’m a little lacking in the Doing department, but now you all know what’s been on my mind. Thank you all for the support, stay safe in These Trying Times, and hopefully we can all keep growing together.

#another me

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woohooligancomics · 6 years

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A Personal Racism Issue. Can I Get Your Advice?

I'm at a bit of a loss... so I'm hoping some of you hooligans might be able to help me out. This weekend I'm tabling a gaming convention with a friend of mine (and I'll leave his name out here for reasons that will be apparent -- I'll call him X). Admittedly, I'm a comedian and a cartoonist, so a gaming convention is slightly off-brand, but I'm hoping there will be a good cross-section of people who also enjoy comedy, and at the end of Friday I've already collected 5 new subscribers to our newsletter, the Woohooligan Weekly Dick Joke Advocate.

This came about when I got an unexpected call from X about a month before the event and he mentioned in passing that he'd already booked a table for this event. I offered to share the booth with him, because I want to attend more cons and I thought I could handle the 5hr drive. I've tabled about a half-dozen cons so far, this would be his first. And although he's a relatively new friend (a year?), I didn't have the impression he was racist -- at least not overtly or knowingly so... I wouldn't associate myself with anyone who identified as "Alt-Right", I think that should be apparent from my work, of which X is aware. Dunking on these racists was part of all three of my most recent YouTube videos, and a comic I published in 2016 which appears in my recent Woohooligan Vol 2 (page 29) that I now have on the table at the event thanks to our recent Kickstarter.

youtube

What I didn't realize until I arrived at the event, is that X is selling t-shirts labelled "Fantasy Lives Matter". There are about a dozen of them, roughly half of his t-shirt designs, so for example a picture of an orc with the text "Orc Lives Matter", another for Elf, Dwarf, etc. I hoped at first that it would go unnoticed as people often don't read the text and just check out the artwork. I've already noticed one girl at the table this morning was put off. She asked me, "are you a Black Lives Matter person or an all lives matter person"? To which I responded "black lives matter... I haven't had that specific conversation with X, though I suspect he's the same"...

Apparently I was wrong, which, I realize in retrospect is what I should have expected, because I think the majority of people would have picked up on the poor taste of trivializing serious problems faced by real people. I want to say I think most people would have picked up on that faster than I did actually, since I think I'd seen these graphics before (I mean, months ago), and it just hadn't clicked in my mind, despite all the work I've done.

I tried to have a brief conversation with X about it, which went nowhere good...

Me: Hey, X. This girl just left, put off by the FLM designs... she asked if I was BLM or ALM.

X: [rolls eyes] Yeah that was my dad's big problem too, thinking people would be offended, and if they are, fuck 'em. I'm saying "all lives matter", even fictional ones.

(That last sentence is a huge problem for me, for reasons I think should be obvious.)

Me: "All lives matter" is intended to shut down people trying to address serious problems.

X: People don't know how to address problems... and to be honest, some of those people running in with the police deserve what they're getting.

(We're way into not-okay territory here and I've invested a huge amount of time and a notable amount of money in this event, and knowing now that X apparently has difficulty staying awake while driving on the freeway, I'm also concerned about his safety if I decided to just leave suddenly... but at this moment I'm not ready to get into what seems like is likely to devolve into a screaming match in front of everyone at the con.)

Me: the BLM movement only exists because there's a huge amount of injustice built into the system. When everything else is held equal, a black person on average receives 2-3 times more jail time than a white person, and that should never happen.

(I don't have reference for that specific figure on-hand -- please check my work and leave a link if you have one, whether I remembered it correctly or not. Thank you.)

X: [basically murmurred agreement]

I don't want to make any excuses for his diminishing of real-world problems, I think it's bad... I'm conflicted about how to address this problem for myself... I plan to publish photos of myself at the con, and the signs for those designs will be in the background... do I black them out? If I do that, am I enabling him?

I don't *think* he realizes what the problem is... I don't *think* he's deliberately racist. On the way back to the house from the convention he offered to buy me dinner at a shawarma place (I'd never had it -- it was good -- it actually reminded me of some southern cafeterias, although the seasoning and the decoration were a little different.)

The waitresses wore hijabs and he was familiar them (had been there many times), and treated them nice enough... though I will say that some of the things he says seem fairly insensitive in a general sense. For example, he makes a lot of objectifying comments about women, including for example, one of the shawarma waitresses, "[damn she's hot]... and great tits". (Of course, he's only seen her breasts 100% covered -- not even cleavage -- so it's a little odd to me to hear someone be so overtly objectifying of someone who's entire outward image is one of "I am not here for you to ogle".) And the whole day at the con was similar -- frequent mentions of "she's smokin' hot" or "that red head" or "I've never wanted to give wood to an elf so bad", which I tried not to encourage. (I like porn too, but my interest in potential partners isn't based on their looks.)

These are things I hadn't noticed in previous phone or online conversations. So I'm a bit conflicted... He's open enough to be friendly with the shawarma waitresses... but he's also interested in them to the point of sexual interest in women who're being very careful to be NOT sexy. So how confrontational should I be about "fantasy lives matter"?

I don't plan to share a table with him again if he's going to continue promoting them... I would hope he would eventually figure out that the phrase is likely to reduce his sales, even when a person might agree with his sentiment, because they don't want to buy a shirt that's going to get them into verbal fisticuffs with people. But this being his first event, and saying that he's already plunked down $1400 into it, it seems to me unlikely that he'll learn that soon. Though in honesty, it always feels like cold comfort to me when someone is doing the right thing only because they realize some kind of financial reward for it.

So should just not sharing tables in the future be where I leave it? Is it okay to accept that, "he's not a deliberate racist, just kind of an insensitive jerk" and just limit my involvement? As an autistic person who knows what it's like to be ostracized for being unintentionally insensitive, am I being too harsh if I say I feel like this is too much? Does that make me a hypocrite? And what about the fact that there are now photos of me in the act of affiliating myself with the creator who promoted "fantasy lives matter"?

Regardless of how it may impact my image, I'm trying to figure out what course of action will produce the best results for everyone -- that hopefully anyone who can become a better person will, regardless of how it impacts my image. Obviously I always have to think about my image, we all do, but that's a secondary concern. I feel like I should be willing to sacrifice my image if the alternative is being hypocritical, cruel, or even just unwilling to evolve or better myself.

Thanks for reading and helping me with this. I appreciate any advice you have.

- Sam

(Now I need to get about 6 hours sleep, because I spent too long composing this blog and have to be up early for the event tomorrow. Thank god my diabetes didn't trash my energy today, and fingers crossed I have the same luck tomorrow.)

UPDATE 9/17/2018

Maybe I should have waited until the end of the event before writing this blog, but the subject distresses me and I wanted to talk about it sooner than later. At the end of Friday, neither X or I had sold anything at the event. Saturday morning, X printed off about 4 shirts as samples to lay on the front of the table (good marketing), to show people that, "hey these pictures on the poster in the back go on t-shirts". It worked and over Saturday and Sunday, he sold at least a half-dozen shirts, most of them "Fantasy Lives Matter" shirts. So while there are some people who are offended by them, there are apparently also a large number of people excited by them (I think exclusively white people that I saw, although most of the attendees looked pretty white to me as well). ::sigh::

Over the course of the event, 27 new people signed up for our Woohooligan Weekly Dick Joke Advocate mailing list. I know many of those people were either indifferent to the FLM shirts or some may have even been excited by them... but I have no idea how many people may have simply avoided conversation with me all-together because of them.

I still have no plans to share another table with X. It's weird to me, because he's really sensitive about other things, like he kept profusely apologizing for falling asleep in the car because he apparently suffers from pretty bad road hypnosis. He's made the hour drive before, but I was concerned about him making the drive after a full day manning the table at the con. Meanwhile I also discovered he's got a huge chip on his shoulder about (of all things) shaking hands.

X: I hate it. I don't like people touching me.

Me: You know people are about 30% more likely to buy from you right?

X: You may be right, but I don't care. It was originally a symbol of distrust. Do you know where it came from?

Me: Yeah, it was originally a way of showing that you weren't armed, but it's evolved into a symbol of trust.

X: It's evolbed into a bullshit thing we do for no goddamn reason!

So to recap: shaking hands is tragic evidence of the decline of civilization, while Black Lives Matter is deluded and don't know how to address problems, and "many of them deserve what they're getting anyway".

I just can't fathom how a person can have that set of priorities when they go out of their way to eat shawarma and so forth and don't appear to be outwardly racist in any other way that I can tell.

His FLM shirts outsold mine by a wide margin, and frankly I don't care... or rather, I find it disheartening... and I'm not about to deliberately associate my work with it in the future. All people need justice, and if you think it through, you should realize that "all lives matter" is the actual meaning of "black lives matter". Saying "all lives matter" as a response is like saying of the condition of slaves, "slave owners have problems, too!" It takes air away from the importance of addressing a great deal of injustice in our country and I don't want to contribute to trivializing that in any way. Even if I stood to gain financially from it, I wouldn't do it.

I'm still not sure what else to do, beyond just not sharing con tables with him again, and would still appreciate hearing any thoughts you have on it. Thanks.

- Sam

#racism #public relations

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rilenerocks · 4 years

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I’ve been thinking along several seemingly disparate pathways the past couple of days. I’ve always been like that. The other day, I met a friend to help her sort through a harsh diagnosis her partner had recently received. After a lifetime of dealing with medical issues, starting with my mom’s lifetime health problems which frightened me when I was just a little girl, to the ones that appeared throughout the decades in other family and friends, and eventually the five year cancer trip with Michael, I’ve gotten pretty good at wading into the morass of illness. My mom always said, “I’m sorry you were exposed to all my physical troubles, but look how smart you got?” Thanks, mom.

This friend of mine I met with is a fellow swimmer. Perversely, we met outside our empty pool where we’d swim next to each other for years while swapping life stories. Outside of the summer months, we’d rarely get together. Up until last Tuesday, aside from our summer swimming, we’d had lunch together exactly twice in three years. She is an artist and photographer. I’ve purchased a few of her pieces which are unique and especially marvelous because she repurposes a lot of throwaway stuff that would otherwise be landfilled. Last year she came to my house to take pictures of me and my yard, which were to be featured in a show about women and their gardens. That show was cancelled because of the virus quarantine. Maybe someday? Who knows?

Anyway, what frequently comes up in our conversations is how I always go off on tangents in what appear to be significant digressions from the topic at hand. But in my circuitous way, I always wind up back on the subject. That’s what this blog is going to be like on this mild, sunny day, as I sit in my backyard with my feet kicking away in my kiddie pool. I’m watching butterflies feed while looking at and listening to birds. I’m learning a lot out here. I’m trying not to worry about Pumpkin, the female cardinal I foolishly attached myself to, despite knowing that’s a bad move with any wild animal. I haven’t seen her in two days. Carmine, her male partner has been omnipresent. And I believe I spotted one of their babies at my bird feeder yesterday, identified by a splotch of that beautiful cream color of its mom.

I can’t hear a damn thing out here except for the birds. My headphones are turned up loud. I’m in my own universe with just the natural world, music, and the always palpable sense of Michael that emanates from this space. Sometimes I catch myself staring at what I can only describe as hologram of him, weeding away in his incredibly meticulous vegetable beds. I can actually see the tendons moving in his legs which were pretty scrawny compared to his muscled upper body. It kind of reminds me of what popped out of R2D2 when Obi-Wan Kenobi retrieved Princess Leia’s message in the first Star Wars film.

The other morning, I was hurrying through kitchen chores when my son showed up in the dining room. He’s staying with me for awhile he works on a postdoc at our local university. I was chattering away at him when he looked at me through bleary eyes and asked, “ what’s up with this intense energy level so early in the day?” Despite my 70th birthday being my next, I still have almost the same high energy that I did when I was young. Apparently that’s hardwired into me. Sometimes I think it’s dissipated over time, but only on a relative scale, I move at a faster pace than most of my family of origin. My mom, despite her ailments, was clearly the progenitor for this trait. My dad spent his time off work lolling on the couch. Everyone in my immediate family also slept more than me. The same was true for the family Michael and I made together. I was always the first one awake, back in the days we were still living as a unit. In addition to the excess energy and the need for less sleep, I have an essentially sunny disposition. I can be sad, go to dark interior places and certainly recognize them, but in me, they don’t last long. After a sad day, I’m always surprised to feel my humor and energy bubble up from somewhere in me. Even in the worst of times, that’s been consistent. Once, a very long time ago, my brother, eight years older than me, told me that the first time he felt real joy was when I was born. I marveled at that statement. My parents also told me that I was such an easy, good baby that they were worried about me. I fell asleep easily with no complaints, which made them put a mirror under my nose to make sure I was still alive. I wasn’t a fussy eater and wasn’t ever colicky. I burbled happily through my days, primarily content and effortlessly pleased.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m certainly not that sweet saccharine type that you might want to punch in the face. I’m just relentlessly not difficult on a daily basis. Michael always said I was a cheap date, easily pleased and satisfied without a lot of effort. In other words, I’m not high maintenance. There’s just a lightness in me, sometimes despite all my efforts to the contrary. I’d like a maudlin wallow that lasted longer than an afternoon. My recovery time is so fast, I always feel like no one ever feels sorry enough for me. Maybe a more dramatic show of angst would get me more attention. Oh well. I think it’s mostly biology that’s running my show, modified by life and experience, but fundamentally locked in. I was twenty when I moved in with Michael and he often told me during our 45 years, that I was the singularly most unchanged person he ever knew. I took that as a compliment. He didn’t mean that I hadn’t evolved during our life together, but rather that my fundamental self was consistent. Since his death, I find that taken together, these essential traits of mine are both beneficial and problematic. My behavior indicates to the outside world that I’ve adapted fairly well to losing my partner. I do a lot of different activities. My brain is still active and I’m perpetually curious. I can have conversations about virtually anything. But inside of me where my intangible substance lives, I feel like I’m just fabricating a life to occupy my time. After all, I’m still alive. My instincts tell me I have to do something. But in my depths, I often think this is all filler, placeholders for what my real life should be, a real life which still feels like my old life with Michael. I don’t know if or what a person is supposed to be in this world. You hear all these quotidian lines – “she’s a born mother,” “he’s a born grandfather,” all these “born” descriptors which seem to define some essential bent that we’re all expected to have. I suppose if that’s true, I’m a born life partner. Except I’m still here being that while my partner is gone. I don’t want another one. I can’t find a shred of evidence in me that would indicate I want to team up with anyone else. So basically, I’m using my essential traits and making up the current me on a daily basis. I don’t much like this. I simply don’t see another choice.

I guess that focusing on transience is the best coping mechanism I can employ to deal with this piece of time. Like the 18th century Dutch painter Rachel Ruysch, whose still lifes show the influence of the Vanitas movement, which display the inevitability of death and the loss of earthly things, I know that ultimately everything and everyone will disappear, if not completely, then certainly by changing form at the very least. Her painting above shows flowers reaching the end of their prime. I can relate to that.

I’ve now lived in my town for almost 52 years. First I was a student with my life centered mostly around campus. After a time, I moved into the community at large. The places I spent time in over these decades, vary in terms of their continued consistent physical presence, a modified presence or their complete disappearance. I rarely go through the university campus any more.

But the other day, I drove through the heart of what is known as Campustown, very near the main quadrangle where I attended classes in beautiful old buildings, many of which were constructed in the late 19th century and the early 20th century. Of course there have been many renovations and updates to those over the years. They are still recognizable. But Campustown is completely changed. High rise buildings dominate the landscape, mostly businesses on the first floors and apartments above. Green space is noticeably absent. Many of the places I frequented have vanished. I have vivid memories of them.

The Record Service where both Michael and I worked, he for 27 years, had several locations in the heart of that place. No trace of it exists. The corner drugstore which sold sundries and the like, but also had a few booths and a kitchen where for a modest price, you could get a hot roast beef or turkey sandwich with gravy and mashed potatoes. My friend Fern and I went there a lot. There was the Spudnuts doughnut shop and Follett’s bookstore. The Co-Ed movie theater and McBride’s plus the Art Mart which now exists in a new location far from campus.

There was Mabel’s, the music venue on the second floor of a building on the main drag, with an impossibly steep staircase even when my knees were good. The Deluxe, home of the best fish sandwich I’ve ever eaten. The Cellar, a basement “head” shop, Thimble and Threads, an alternative clothing store, The Leather Shop and Marrakech Clothing Imports. The Campus Florist, The Art Coop and the camera store way before digital cameras existed. Bailey and Himes sporting goods store. Chin’s restaurant and The Brown Jug. All these places and more exist in my mind. I can feel myself in them, feel what I’m doing as I jiggle my favorite pinball machine, Drop-a-Card, a little tipsy from beer which I never liked. I see my view of the stage from the good tables at Mabel’s where you could listen without getting too squished and sweaty and still get up to dance if you were so inclined. I can see my friends and remember conversations there. And of course there is Michael with me. As I drove down that strange but familiar street, I realize that when I’m gone, along with others in my peer group, all that energy from that time will spiral out into the universe somewhere, vanished from sight but yet alive in a context I can’t fathom. I believe that science will one day bear out my feelings about those mystical ideas.

A year or so ago, I had the presence of mind to drive around town to take pictures of every place I lived in before Michael and I bought the house I still currently occupy. Two places were demolished but I found photos of one of them. The other I hope to describe before that memory disappears. In my head, I can still walk through all those houses, turning into the kitchens, the bedrooms, the bathrooms. I can feel the doorknobs in my hands. I navigate the past, parallel to the present. So much has happened in my life already. With the grinding repetitive routine that the coronavirus has required of me, these filler assignments that I concoct to occupy the present vacant time, aren’t as much fun as what’s already behind me, or next to me, or floating around somewhere in these difficult-to-comprehend wavelengths that are the stuff of physics and string theory and other befuddling concepts. I’ll take these scientists at their word while wishing for concepts easier for me to understand.

The other day, my son told me that my daughter didn’t want to sell our house after I die. Actually, she’d already told me that. He doesn’t really want to sell it either. I think I get it. Our home is like their ancestral shrine. People tend to move a lot in this country. When I came here in 1968 I was a 17 year old college freshman. Ten years later, after living with Michael and bumping around for six years, we bought this house, never dreaming we’d live here forever. But that’s how things worked out. I am anchored here, where so much of my adult life happened. My kids were conceived here and stayed until they went off to college. But they came back and brought their friends. We hosted 35 Thanksgiving dinners here with a wide assortment of family and stragglers. People who needed a place to stay intermittently shared our space. My mother lived here in a room that still smells like her. Michael and I did every conceivable activity that passes between friends and lovers here, up to and including his death. I am never uncomfortable or unhappy with our memories in this space. I wondered if I would be but instead it’s my gift and comfort to be here. If I’m lucky, I’d like to die in this place, just like Michael, although no one can predict what awaits us. If I could choose it, though, this is where I’d be.

When we moved in here, there was major reclamation to be done on this structure built in 1893. Daunting work and still it never ends. But the house emitted these wonderful feelings immediately, and we often wondered what good things must’ve happened that lingered in the walls and drifted out, enveloping us in the warmth of home. I imagine we’ve added to that deep resonance of succor which is palpable to me. I’m not surprised that my kids intuitively understand that their history still resides here. Not something they’re likely to quickly cast aside once I’m gone, to hopefully commingle with whatever is Michael, who is out there afloat, still pulling on me daily, while I make up my current daily existence. All these changes I’ve experienced, internally and externally. My, my. I muddle along, creating a space around me that seems to pass for a full life. Maybe filler is too negative a connotation for what I’m doing now. Some days are better than others. I am confident that I still have value in this world and my intellect is fully operative which helps immeasurably. But the draw of my partner still dominates me after three years and change. If that alters, maybe I’ll redefine my current perceptions of this iteration of me.

Filler I’ve been thinking along several seemingly disparate pathways the past couple of days. I’ve always been like that.

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