bironic

All I have to say is: OMFGDavidHallberg.

Actually, I have a lot more to say than that. I'm pretty sure you're all sick of hearing about my trips to the ballet -- or at least sick of hearing me wax lyrical over certain dancers -- or possibly it's only my co-workers who feel this way -- but you definitely will be after reading this -- so it's all behind a cut today. ( Death and Greek gods. )

And moving on.

synn's back from YaoiCon and I'm off to Philly with my mother and sister for a day to visit a great-aunt I haven't seen in probably 10 years. She's been terrific to my mother since she (my mother) was a kid, is now old and wealthy and ill, and is apparently preparing to fill our car with boxes upon boxes of stuff -- china, pottery, painted eggs, who knows -- to keep it away from her son-in-law, who she's convinced is going to take everything when she and her husband die. Should be a fun time.

Fortunately I have Jonathan Lethem for company, in the form of Motherless Brooklyn, which features a detective-hero with Tourette's. Makes for interesting reading when he keeps randomly yipping or shouting stuff like "EatmeBailey!" (or, my favorite so far, "Eatme-stringjoke!"). It's not funny, really, and Lethem isn't intending it to be. The way Lionel describes living with the syndrome reminds me of having a chest cold where you feel the urge to cough, try to suppress it, succeed briefly, then descend into desperation as the urge builds, losing concentration on what's going on, perhaps seeking escape in shifting your position or breathing differently, until the inevitable cough explodes; the urge recedes, but you know it'll be back; and the cycle continues. It's like that for Lionel in the book except instead of a cough it's verbal or physical tics, which get worse under stress. My manager's son has Tourette's and she's mentioned how when he comes home from college he lets loose all the tics that've been building up until he relaxes after about a day.

Aside from the condition itself, or rather because of it, Lionel makes for a beautiful read on account of the language games he's forced to play. Every time he hears a new word or strange phrase he tumbles it over in his head and comes right back with a handful of variations, one-two-three, in wacky combinations and always rhythmic. In the tradition of reading any good writer's work, my thoughts are starting to rock to his cadence.

Off to Philly.