Ex-pat Life II

My, I'm prolific today ;-). Procrastination 101, plus Heating-engineer-in-the-house.

So further to my little blog yesterday about the expat life thing. I think I am feeling a bit unsettled by the orbiting nature of my life. It's predictable -- the harder I find the writing, the more untethered I feel.

So last night F and I were re-watching the final episode of Season 3 of the new Who, the one where captain jack and the doctor are held prisoner by the Master, who has taken over the earth with the highly destructive paradox humankind from the end of the universe, who kill because it's fun? And even when they vanquish the Master, after Martha walks the earth for a year instilling hope and a collective surge of DOCTOR energy all at the same time? Which works because the doctor has telepathically linked himself with the archangel network?

(Hee, I just LOVE trying to recap the plots of sci fi shows -- "so the original creatures from the origin of the universe? They're like these SPIDER PEOPLE living at the centre of the earth?")

So anyway. Once the Doctor and Martha and Captain Jack have vanquished the Master, the Doctor cradles him in his arms and says "I only have one thing to say to you and you have to listen. I FORGIVE YOU."

Because more than anything, the doctor yearns to connect with this sole living example of his species, the Timelords -- and even though the Master is pretty much the embodiment of evil, the Doctor burns to not be an orphan anymore, and believes that if he keeps the Master in the TARDIS, he'll feel whole again?

So after that, I had this dream that just translated this plot and my own sense of dislocation so simply. I dreamed I was working with a guy who had a condition like severe autism, where he couldn't connect with anyone. I somehow managed to find a way for him to communicate with me, and he was so happy. I then took him to meet someone else like him, and it was the first person he'd ever been able to really connect with in his life. He was completely joyful, and they were talking to each other in signs and words I didn't understand. Then I took him home again and he DIED ON THE PLANE ON THE WAY HOME.

So I'm a little dislocated. Not unbearably so, and I do know I'll feel better when I have this draft behind me. But. Still. Makes me think that my six word memoir is more something like:

Always in margins. Usually on edge.