Saturday, May 22, 2004

God, listening to Opera is like watching magic, voices from beyond our own frail flesh exploding or whispering sweet songs into thousands of ears hundreds of feet away. The emotion of the singing capturing and carrying whatever flimsy plot like a car chase fills an otherwise banal thriller. It's just a framework for beauty, and after a while, your left and brain hemispheres stop arguing about how silly and ridiculous the story, how silly and ridiculous mid-19th century Paris, and focus on the siren song of the sublime. La Traviata was good times. And it is good to be home. In St. Louis. Although Jans now has me addicted to air conditioning. Damn, it was nice to come home to a cold house, after journeying all day. It was like a hotel after a dusty driving day. Only I live here. I'll pay the extra money, I'll try to drive as little as possible, just to keep my environmental foot print smaller. I was just thinking on the plane home how my work with people with autism and developmental disabilities makes me more patient than most, dealing with different personalities, difficult ones. I'm less apt to take it personally and redirect when they do the equivalent poo tossing or more subtle inappropriate social action. Focus on what they can do and positively contribute, assume they mean no harm, and model in my own reaction more of what I'd like to see from them. I'm also still mildly puzzled by Sarah's looks at the conference, not in any blossoming romance sort of way, but because it seems as if I should know her already, as if she does, and has a familiarity, like she knows my true name, that she's enjoying and enjoying keeping secret from me. Never had something like that happen to me. 12:17:24 AM