The Urge To Blag

I've been getting it. Here's what I'm eating for breakfast: trader joes honey bunches of oats with milk, raisins, and peanuts. zesty. I might as well dwell in a house of peanut butter, it seems to line my every surface.

Stuff I care about:
sign language. It is mad rad. I like to fingerspell everything (circa "occupy everything")

bdsm blogs. heh.

conversing with someone via frisbee tossing: It is more intimate than most conversations. All we ever use are words, and I am realy trying to get myself to wholly believe that communication can happen as definitively through physical metaphors as it can through verbal exchange. We think if we see something, it must be there. But if we hear something, it could be a simulation, or far away, or misheard. So to, with frisbee. A story develops as we toss, the nuanced eye contact, the directness and speed of the throws, the playful nature, the candor of plastic exchange, the congratulatory measures coupled with the dutiful apologies for (if in nyc) hitting passersby in the head) and elsewhere-- a bad throw.

I played hockey last night in a small gym in washington heights. This one very nice guy who played disclosed to me and some of the other players that his mom died that morning (yesterday). I couldn't say anything, so I gave him lots of eye contact, and was frank. I have insights into death, although not of a parent, but a parent's parent. I asked him on the subway if he felt that he had sufficiently / appropriately individuated into his own person such that he does not feel like he lost his left side of the body when his mother passed. He said yes; it gave me hope that someday I will be as autonomous as all getout.