chicating

that shade of green polish in the "Wicked" aisle.

-"Matewan" was a tough watch, but it was worth it.
and I blogged about "UnReal", which I thought was great.
http://bohemiancrip.blogspot.com/2024/10/finished-streaming.html

I think a lot of the people who are on the disability committee with me, although they are often older, are so new to the movement, or, in fact, the idea that there is a movement, that everything about doing it jazzes them.
I am torn between missing that--I did it when I was twenty, and it did feel great to think I could change the world by Thursday.
But, like, I didn't, and whole decades went by.
So I pretty much just find their excitement tiring.

Signed up for a writing workshop in November. I must be betting civilization, such as that all is, holds out.(At the same time, maybe I should have spent a big chunk of birthday money on something a bit more...novel(Pun not intended) I am always acutely conscious of all that I have missed, in ways I thought I wouldn't be when I had "late bloomer" to protect me. I don't even know what I wish I could do(Mostly, besides seeing a man about a dragon, heh heh) but mostly I know it's not this.

Still, although it's not the brand-new idea it was last year, this workshop is about the things people leave behind(letters, photos, posts, etc.) Same leader as the last one, though. (Hopefully, she will not think I'll do ANYTHING to get her to read my baby-shower story. Even though I think it's the shit.)

I watched a voter-suppression documentary for the second time with the people at work, and still have yet to see the end because they start late, my attendant kind of shows up whenever...irony much? It's good enough, though, I suppose. Wish everybody didn't shove everything in the same early-evening slots, though.

although I'm neither sunny nor literally trapped in a literal bunker, and really the whole show is like a live-action cartoon, I do relate to Kimmy trying to fill in gaps in her awareness and make up for lost time.

(from a joke from my stepdad when I wrote college applications and wrote many of them.)
Hope this one was more worth writing than all of that stuff... this is just a sample, though.
One thing I remembered from those first months is not feeling good enough for them, acutely conscious that I went to a state college with a big reputation as a “party school”—not that I, rushing home on paratransit, ever got to party much. But that same rush home also kept me from all the chatter about art, films and the big questions that people had told me I might love about college
. I also still debated hiding a few things: the severity of my disability, and, in a very related topic, how little I knew from my own experience about dating and sex. It was easier, back then, to hide my physical being, to take what I had learned in junior high and high school about being the dry little voice in the front row and apply it to the wilds of pixels.

Living as an idea was gratifying until we all started to become real friends. But maybe I might have dithered about the reveal longer if someone in Illinois hadn’t had a daughter with a diagnosis somewhat like mine. Also, people were wanting to meet me in my actual life which was certainly possible, but more logistically complicated than with my abled counterparts, on grounds that I couldn’t just hop in a car and meet someone, at the very least. Being more honest only felt like giving up some freedom for about a week, even though there was a part of me that had tried to conform that halfway expected, even though our guiding spirit was a televised cheerleader with a mystical calling, to have my thoughts and impressions valued less, or to become a curiosity for all the wrong reasons after people understood about the wheelchair and some of its discontents.

I guess having people at college say “But you’re so smart! “after revealing my mobility deficits and brain damage(different part of the brain) left a mark. I’d found a community that was intrigued by my differences.
Which is not to say that over the years, there’s never been a divide....

some Specter/ Ross slash. Which is not *exactly* where my heart lies, although I do think that relationship is the heart of the show, no matter how cute Meghan is. Given that "Suits" reminds me of Entourage, though. there is SO much slash...I can tell without looking. (I bet, occasionally, there's a drunken girls' night for Donna/Rachel too, but they are dwarfed by the boys.)
Because that date with the therapist?(Kind of a squicky thought, although he did just see her for panic attacks, I suppose) seems kind of compensatory. Like, maybe the actor didn't see it as a compliment and was, like, "Write me something."

You-Tube showed me a "Mix" that it made me this morning...sometimes music inspires me, although I hope never to be that writer that shows off character playlists and all that kind of...Anyway, I think You-Tube knows I was a Promising Young Woman in the nineties and have hippie parents with slightly dueling record collections(And, yes, Everclear, Dad's a white-guy disappointment who will be officially muted when James Taylor dies.) I have my own spin on all that stuff, as many of us do, but I don't think I'm that deep. (Anymore.) There is still one surprise, though-- my own history with "Joker" by Steve Miller.
Aside from hearing it approximately 3 million times when out with my mother as a sprout(as with Margaritaville, that I much prefer) one special place I must have heard it was at some point on my way to my biggest ADAPT action in Washington DC. I had it stuck in my head for all three days. Maybe everyone else was filled with grandeur and purpose and I was wondering what a pompatus is for about the fifty-thousandth time. That would explain a lot about my life, maybe. Anyway, pretty sure You-Tube isn't reading my memories, just yet...still wish they were better in case. probably it just "figured out' how much guitar I like or something.

After all this time, I finally wrote an "OMG, the stick's blue," story, as a lot of people did in my creative-writing classes in college. (A few were good, but I think that's what drama is, when you're twenty in the burbs. (I couldn't write one because I wasn't having sex--not that I am now, again, but a sort of speculative-fiction elegy to my would-be fertility seems appropriate now, in ways it might not have when my fondest dream was to Fit. Which, of course, I never really managed, more than being the quippy mascot who makes everyone feel better with how weird she is.But I guess I didn't want to fit enough just to copy, though I did want to rip off Ann Beattie and Philip Roth pretty hard in those days.