Standing under the arch. A looming foreboding. A comforting covering. An oxymoronic juxtaposition. Trundling along towards an end that is far too near, autumnal chants that incite the demons of fear… Yet, dancing underneath the sheets of toxic foam, spring is valiant and defiant.
The Sensory Gremlins are at it again. Not merely the insistent neuropathic pain, but the indefatigable Dust Bunny Mob, the Grime Spectres that lurk in kitchen and bathroom, the endless loads of laundry, and dishes to attack – these monsters demand a battle spirit of intense vim and vigour, which I sadly and frustratingly lack.
I just want to focus my limited resources on my work. It is distressing. Not being able to direct the strength of my innate autistic focus upon what matter most to me. Well, alongside Lucy, my work is of utmost importance to me – oases of rest, regeneration, inspiration and tranquility. Lucy and work, that is. But I have scant time and physical fuel left for the two, because I am frantically chasing tiny leviathans. Yes. Tiny Leviathans!
In the meantime… the deadline looms nearer and nearer. The nausea sitting just beneath my diaphragm like a sinister black statue is growing, the curl of its mocking smile lifts higher as the time draws nigh – and laundry, dishes, Dust Bunny Mob, Grime Spectres join forces in a deafening roaring silent Dies Irae chorus.
Food is a temporary solace. But cooking and eating also means more dishes to wash.
Lucy is my only sensory clemency for the moment. The happiest time of my life. Yet, the dichotomy is cogent in its own tangible material parallel existence.