misssylviadrake (misssylviadrake) wrote,

The Price of Freedom; or Dreams Shrinking Down

Dear friends and readers,

Each day for a long time in the 1980s and again now I relearn the price of freedom is to have to endure being different, being alone, and having to watch others (no one here) take advantage of their connections or position to present themselves as meriting more than others apparently based on value of work. I am glad to pay the price because where I was I would not have been allowed to teach what I had developed that was worth while, worth the teaching, but asked to teach (at GMU) corruption, phoniness and myself enact it.

Now last night Yvette confirmed the outrageous cost and impossiblity of parking. A friend in her office whose daughter goes to GMU just signed a check for $625. Her daughter is not guaranteed a space and today when Caroline and I were on the campus two of the garages were labelled "full." (And we passed two small nearly empty ones for Big People.) I've had an escape of this kind of absurity: Shit. Don't do it on the pot or on the floor. But by all means shit.

Then this morning I woke and realized I had been having a series of dreams.  Two workmen who had been coming to my house to fix it -- or thing in it --finally showed up in rags. They looked anorexic. One looked like Kenneth Branagh -- when he was young. The other was black or hispanic. They were fading away, weak like ghosts. A number of years ago I used to hire two Irishmen to do work around and on my house -- for very reasonable sums. They were probably illegal immigrants. They've gone now and my guess is these two ghost workmen are related to them. I did like these Irish guys so it's sad.

What do they stand for? At the same time as I woke I found myself remembering how my picture was put up yesterday and how it really didn't fit pre-conceptions at all: a print for a  start and where I put it. Over a thin bookcase of audiocassettes, behind the hall door.  I've an idea many middle class people would be horrified at my house. Or not understand it. It does bother me this idea. But not enough. I don't care enough. And I can't get myself to conform beyond a minimum for health and solvency.  I don't even know how to conform.

They stand for how I'm letting fall away what I don't care about for real, my non-conformity false ambition, not over the house (as I've never fooled myself there), but elsewhere. Stumbling towards a better happier way.

Tags: aspergers, diary, education, global warming, historical novels, human rights, politics, social life

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