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Pleasant low-grade holiday.

I Remunerated throughout most of it.

There was a morning Zoom with the descendants of the far-flung Plunkett clan.

The SWSOITC logged in from an airport in Istanbul on his way back from a diving expedition in the Maldives.

Bruce Shoe logged in from a shipping container outside Tucson, in which he’ll be living for the next few months.

I saw Marlena and Avery for the first time since they were kids. They have become beauties.

Both my boys were on, looking sleepy.

###

In the evening, I Facetimed for an hour with just the boys:





We must get serious about planning the Guatemala trip!

###

This morning, The Wall Street Journal ran a story about how to survive holiday loneliness.

The story made me giggle.

The WSJ went to great pains to differentiate regular loneliness—" that feeling of social isolation or dissatisfaction with our level of connection”—from existential loneliness—"that alone-in-a-crowd feeling that no one understands you or relates to your experience.”

Honestly, I didn’t think they allowed people with the potential to feel existential loneliness to read The WSJ!

The WSJ sez the way to stop feeling lonely is to remind yourself that other people are lonely too and to pretend you’re connected to them! Also: Bake cookies!

Personally, I think the way to stop feeling lonely is to channel your inner Asperger’s! In fact, I envision a future 10 years from now where high-functioning individuals on the spectrum will be giving seminars and raking in the big bucks: Let Disaffection Be Your New Best Friend!

Gary Shteyngart could write a novel about it.

###

I am putting together my List of Worthy Organizations to whom to donate $$$$ to at the year’s end.

This has been a good year for me money-wise, so I will be donating more than I donated last year.

I’m donating to Médecins Sans Frontières, the National Network of Abortion Funds, and the Hudson Valley Food Bank.

I’m also giving cash to several people I know, although that one becomes a bit problematic since I don’t want these people to feel either humiliated or beholden.

Like I know Lois Lane is in desperate straits.

I can’t pay her January rent, but I can make a donation toward it.

But I don’t want her to feel awkward or weird about it.

I want her to understand: I’ve been there.

That I got out.

That she can, too.
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I continue my Oliver Sacks reading spree.

“I’ve always felt she was the closest I would ever come to an alien intelligence,” the theoretical physicist Freeman Dyson wrote about an autistic child named Jessy Park. "Autistic children are so strange and so different from us – and yet you can communicate; there are many things you can talk with her about… [But] she has no concept of her own identity, she doesn’t understand the difference between “you” and “I” – she uses pronouns almost indiscriminately. And so her universe is radically different from mine. Concrete social relations are for her very, very difficult to comprehend. On the other hand, with anything abstract, she has no trouble. So mathematics, of course, is no problem for her ad we can talk very easily about mathematics…. I think autism comes about as close as possible to the central problem of exploring the neurological basis of personality. Because these are people whose intelligence is intact, but something at the center is missing.”

But I wonder if it’s precisely that “something at the center” that’s the real dysfunction?

That’s the problem about reading so much science fiction at so tender an age that you begin adapting the genre’s actualizations of science metaphors as a deeper truth, I suppose.

I’ve always equated autism with whatever it was in Arthur C. Clark’s Childhood’s End that set the F2 generation apart from its progenitors. I’m particularly struck by the inability to discriminate between “I” and “you.” It hints at a bedrock connection of some sort.

In other news, scriveners gloves or no scriveners gloves, my poor fingers are swollen to the size of Vienna sausages and I can barely bend them. It’s 12 degrees out – was eight when I awakened. But at least there’s a sliver of sunshine along the horizon, a bright gold glimpse of hope.

I fucking hate winter.

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