where to begin...

Time with T. and his post hit home in more ways than one. I've been too exhausted, jetlagged, busy with other things, reeling from emotional turmoil to write anything in this strange public forum, but am drawn back to it, because ultimately it's filled with people I love in different ways.

No matter how far I get into workmode, no matter how professionally inspired I get by the creative, beautiful people around me, this alone does not make me happy. Nor really do the communities in which I participate in a professional capacity: the kind of communication I get high on is taboo there. Touching is mostly taboo, there's no such thing as taking a walk with your arms around each other and talking; the most touch you get is the occasional hello/goodbye hug.

That is how it should be. Personal Space is Important. You think more clearly and rationally when there are personal boundaries drawn. That's the only way to ever be truly consistently productive.

Yet, if I do not have an outlet for deeply personal communication, verbal and tactile, it begins to physically hurt after a while. This outlet exists, I have it when I am in the Boston area, because there is a whole slew of people there with whom it is possible to interact through a haptic interface. I suppose, then, there's no choice: no matter where my professional life may take me, I must have at least occasional meaningful contact with that community.

The closer I get to actually going to Boston, the more acutely this touch starvation manifests itself. Then I am glad to have a good body memory, and can recall exactly what it feels like to curl up with a friend as default for conversation.

At the symposium I went to last week, there was about half a day in which I was too exhausted to form coherent sentences even in my own head. The only way I felt able to communicate with the outside world was by touch, and there was not a single human being around with whom it would have been appropriate. At the same time, so many things had happened, so much had been said, so many trains of thought provoked that there was an urgent need to talk to someone who'd been there. The solution was apparently to curl up on a coffeehouse couch until the stuff in my head slowed down its frenetic flying about and allowed for some coherence.

more later.

where to begin...

Time with T. and his post hit home in more ways than one. I've been too exhausted, jetlagged, busy with other things, reeling from emotional turmoil to write anything in this strange public forum, but am drawn back to it, because ultimately it's filled with people I love in different ways.

No matter how far I get into workmode, no matter how professionally inspired I get by the creative, beautiful people around me, this alone does not make me happy. Nor really do the communities in which I participate in a professional capacity: the kind of communication I get high on is taboo there. Touching is mostly taboo, there's no such thing as taking a walk with your arms around each other and talking; the most touch you get is the occasional hello/goodbye hug.

That is how it should be. Personal Space is Important. You think more clearly and rationally when there are personal boundaries drawn. That's the only way to ever be truly consistently productive.

Yet, if I do not have an outlet for deeply personal communication, verbal and tactile, it begins to physically hurt after a while. This outlet exists, I have it when I am in the Boston area, because there is a whole slew of people there with whom it is possible to interact through a haptic interface. I suppose, then, there's no choice: no matter where my professional life may take me, I must have at least occasional meaningful contact with that community.

The closer I get to actually going to Boston, the more acutely this touch starvation manifests itself. Then I am glad to have a good body memory, and can recall exactly what it feels like to curl up with a friend as default for conversation.

At the symposium I went to last week, there was about half a day in which I was too exhausted to form coherent sentences even in my own head. The only way I felt able to communicate with the outside world was by touch, and there was not a single human being around with whom it would have been appropriate. At the same time, so many things had happened, so much had been said, so many trains of thought provoked that there was an urgent need to talk to someone who'd been there. The solution was apparently to curl up on a coffeehouse couch until the stuff in my head slowed down its frenetic flying about and allowed for some coherence.

more later.