I went over to Ron's today to fix his computer. He's currently diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease, and the experience was quite surreal. I've fixed his computer many times before; he's always managed to find new and fascinating ways of mucking it up that I've never seen before. But it was always almost fun; we'd joke and laugh and pop in a movie while a virus scan was running or whatever. Wherever he was, he was in the center of things. And since the disease has stripped away his voice, you just don't get that experience - though there are enough glimmers to make the experience worthwhile. Right from when I got there and his girlfriend's father answered the door instead of him, I knew things would be fundamentally different before. I'd seen him several times before since his speech had gone bad, but it had always been on my terms. To see how much his home environment had changed (and not just because of the disease), well, it was like hearing one of your favorite old acoustic tunes redone by a one hit wonder using exclusively synthesizers. You can understand the appeal, but for you it just isn't the same. This is all of course very selfish on my part in saying, but there it is anyway. The man behind the eyes is the same, and him just being him made the afternoon more than worthwhile. There is something irrepressible about Ron's essential nature that glimmers through regardless of the cosmetic changes, and it was through that that I returned to the flow of things. The computer was gloriously befuddled, a scene I recognized for having sorely missed without recognizing it. The only thing that got to me was the silence while I worked. That was the truly jarring thing. I'm not used to there being silence around Ron.

And with that last paragraph I've been unintentionally far too honest in places. The glimmering emotional complexities just beneath the surface remind me why a simplistic lifestyle is impossible to maintain. And yet, somewhere buried in that paragraph is the meaning beyond meaning.

I've got to treat people better. I feel better about myself when I treat people better. And yet their own inadequacies mean I go from being the opressor to the opressed. I must find a way to assert myself without dominating.

And now I'm strongly considering a bowl of cereal. Followed by a few chapters from my book and the bed. Now that's gloriously simple. And for once no guilt about it, either. Less is more.