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Vacation closed

It is almost a relief that my mother takes the blame for selecting these cabins. I gave this as an option, mainly because only a few listings met the qualifications for our rental. She needed her dogs with her, or she could not go on vacation, as had happened with Portland years before (though that house was chosen for its pet-friendliness; she didn't feel up for the long trip with them). It narrowed our options considerably to the degree that only three or four possibilities existed. I do not know what resulted in these cabins winning out, but I cannot fathom that most others would have been worse.

My tendency in general, but specifically on vacation, is to fall into the Rescuer role in the Reenactment Triangle, even when no one asks to be rescued. It is the bane of being the middle child, the designated peacekeeper, the former gifted kid who is still programmed for the approval of adults.

Playhouse

On this trip to Lake George, I wanted to disconnect. "Assassination attempt of candidate who will likely earn most of my family's votes while the other seems verbally doddering" is a topic unavoidable in polite conversation. My family isn't given to polite conversation if we have our druthers, so I suspect we will hash it out by Wednesday.

My mother arrives first to what she labels "the cabin in the woods." The phrase is so evocative that Amber and I indulge in figuring out the form of the monster we will summon and how our character archetypes will be picked off.

Perfect

It is only a few towns away, but the Germantown fireworks carnival has flyover state vibes, helped by the cowboy hats and country band playing covers in a pavilion, ten decibels over necessity such that Amber and I slip in our earplugs (we always have ear plugs). July haze hangs over the park, the sunlight roiling the humidity until it oppresses. When I arrived, I considered the cowboy hats morally neutral, a harmless eccentricity of people who identify with the subculture more than having anything to do with agriculture. Into the tenth minute of the sun on the back of my neck, I see the utility of a properly brimmed hat, though I still look askance at the clean black woolen ones on some heads. I sweat more even being near them.

Dancing

During the session, the therapist got a faraway look and started typing when I was confessing a difficult moment. It is my nature that if I do not feel someone is acknowledging me, I will stop speaking. He gets a notification ding and tends to that. I cannot help but feel his focus might be elsewhere, like maybe he is answering other clients during my session. None of his answers seem quite on point, but I have not seen him for two weeks. I wrote a message with a few reminders and updates because I could not trust him to remember otherwise.

Making Pride

Amber and I begin with our bimonthly Queer Boardgame Night at Megabrain Comics, formerly of Rhinebeck and presently in Red Hook--and conveniently within walking distance from our apartment. Per the request of Roxy, a softly grinning mainstay of these events, we brought Last Night on Earth, as the group pretty much has the hang of it through repeated attempts.

Michele, the president of BeckHook Pride and (I think) the originator of this night, is present. However, she has to skedaddle for a bit to iron out some hitch for the annual Pride event on Sunday. I promise to play her horde of zombies until she returns and otherwise act as a quisling to help her in the game.

I have no recollection of this

I acknowledge that, to some, I have made it. I have nine books published and was traditionally published until Double Dragon Publishing went out of business because the owner wanted to take up painting full time (and has thereafter tried every few weeks to make the Wikipedia page about the publisher about him instead before editors revert it).

I do not generally feel I have made it because I do not think in those terms outside of strangers recognizing me for my work, which has happened twice. Once, a young woman asked if I wrote Artificial Gods and couldn't explain how she knew about that book. The other time, a woman in the grocery store asked if I was the man from the paper, then clarified that she actually recognized Amber, who the reporter photographed as well, because they are cuter than I am.