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what we have here is a failure to communicate - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
what we have here is a failure to communicate
Every time I get stuck on a bit of this thing the Brainweasels go straight into the debate on whether anybody's writing is actually any good and maybe all artistic types would be better off packing it in to become bricklayers instead. Not entirely sure why they're choosing to seize upon that line of argument for this particular Project... Possibly because it's so much about "normality" and whether you can fake it, which is a question I tend to wrestle with a lot myself when everybody's damn kids are running around outside and I come up blank trying to picture myself anywhere in that sort of a life.

...This is going to be a long summer.


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ashnistrike From: ashnistrike Date: June 8th, 2011 04:23 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)
I love my son, but normal is overrated. Except for the part about not being a bloodsucking fiend of the night. That part is useful--to have, or barring that, to fake.

I've met very few "mundanes" who didn't treat their bricklaying as an art, have an art on the side, or wish they had one.
robling_t From: robling_t Date: June 8th, 2011 08:34 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)
Well, "normal" as a rough generalization for "is there enough common ground between any two humans to allow for the possibility of meaningful communication", which I sometimes find myself doubting as a general concept, and especially after WisCon. :) The feeling that I'm starting out so far outside everybody else's consensus reality that the entire idea of trying to make myself understood is pointless is a hard one to wrestle with overall, and I think it's coming out so strong here because one of the major themes is about fighting to connect with the world when it's not always arranged with you in mind (because you've outlived your times, your family looks different, your body's telling you some strange things about what it needs to be healthy itself... etc); and yes, I'm very much wrestling with to what degrees this is ultimately a narrative about disability, and aging, and generally not fitting into the one-size that supposedly fits-all of modern society -- and is that a story that can be told, or does the act of observing so disturb the observed that it's not the same story by the time it's been fit into a shape that someone else would recognize as a story?
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