THAT DAY...

I read a book on kids with neurological or developmental damage, with the horrible title When Children Invite Child Abuse, by Svea Gold. Kids who never smile or look you in the eye because they're autistic, who make noises due to weak audio processing, who hurt their hand repeatedly because it's nearly numb... Such behaviors drive parents crazy and scare or alienate others--I wouldn't call it "inviting child abuse" but "provoking" might be fair. Such kids act creepy. But their actions are natural, if the kids are numb or blind in some part of body or mind--they're trying to get relief or feedback.

The cure is to force the brain to rewire, help the damaged part by giving it with lots of detailed sensory feedback. But such therapy is slow hard work, and no one likes these kids... so the system tends to write such kids off as hopeless.

Exactly as I write off my own deficiencies as hopeless.

JUST BEFORE BED...

Lying on my floor, I sketched. It was cold, and the light was dim, but I kept at it.

Hard work, awkward, at my limit of figure- and perspective-skills.

I doubted any of it was good... but I ignored my inner critic and just drew.

THAT NIGHT

I'm in bed, making love with a shy awkward girl. Our sex is mechanical. Literally! She was once a boy but had a sex change: a new type of procedure that'll give her a much more sensitive cunt than earlier operations--but she's still healing, and right now it's still mostly plastic and metal--flat plates with holes pipes and lots of electronic sensors. Shaped like a girl, but as cool and rigid as silicone breasts. Her new cunt can't give me any feedback! I stroke and lick without knowing if I'm having any effect.

But eventually, her slight rocking and gasping tell me she's coming. I think it's the first time she has.

I feel triumph over something cold and difficult. I've brought the mechanical part alive. While it'd be more fun to please myself, this will have lasting benefits.

NEXT MORNING

ACTION: Draw like this more! The sex in the dream and doing the art felt similar--difficult, cold stiff, but coming slowly alive.
So banish my art-critic, and start in on its little friends. The job critic, the love critic...

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