Han: "How are we doing?" Luke:"The same as always."

Have just talked to Ciro; he is safely in Boston and being fed and margaritaed by my parents. His theory is that this whole bit was a revenge for some UK passengers being stopped at JFK airport a few weeks back, as they kept trying to lecture him about racism in the US. It's also pretty clear that the immigration officer lied to at least one of us, and probably both of us, a couple of times - said opposite things.

Ciro has of course had an awful and exhausting day, which he has weathered admirably; that story is really his to tell, but know at least that he's not, for instance, rending clothes, weeping uncontrollably, prostrating himself on the floor, etc. No raging; just that kind of quiet, tired, oddly cheerful "oh, the universe." I doubt any plan will be worked out for a few days; we'll need time to think, and probe, and form opinions.

We're both fine.

Bright Blue His Jacket Is, And His Boots Are Yellow

(Or: Vizzini Said Go Back to the Beginning. This is the Beginning.)

Predictably, I woke up in a sorry physical state - another night of not sleeping much, sore shoulders from hunching over the laptop I've wedged on to the windowsill - the only place I get reliable signal. Nauseated, still, though over the last six hours I've managed to work up from refusing even water, to a couple of mechanically force-eaten pastries, a thimble of jam, and, just now, the day's first cup of tea.

After hours of research and pondering, the facts are clear: London Film School is still the best one, and the only one that interests me. There is no doubt in my mind that if I graduate from LFS, I will go on to the acclaimed and successful career of my choosing. I will also, while here, produce a lot of work that makes me proud. The school is still expensive; living in London is still expensive. I'd make the money back. Those are the facts.

The Boston film market is bland, although better than Dallas - better than Austin. Enough festivals to keep things interesting. A regrettable number of New Englanders (you may wonder at this point whether there is a people, or a location, in the world that I like. The answer is unfortunately no.) - but an accompanying population of non-natives. (I do enjoy transplants.) A strong music scene - lots of bands for whom to make music videos, the classic non-scholastic (and often scholastic) route to film legend.

The real problem - the real difficulty in asking me to make any kind of decision - is that people don't seem to believe the paucity of my ambition. I'd like enough money to get by on - $30,000 a year would be luxurious - and I'd like to make cool stuff and show it to people. "Cool stuff" covers anything from a doodle on a napkin to a blockbuster film, hit song, or the fabled Great American Novel; "people" could be an audience of millions, or an elderly couple at a corner coffee shop. Nobody has to know I'm the one who made it.

I'd like to spend a lot of time with Ciro; I'd like him to be happy, or at least not miserable. I don't know how hard that will be; he is ambitious. I'd like to look at beautiful things regularly, at my leisure, which is easy because there are a lot of them, and not everyone knows it. I'd like a home that's attractive and comfortable. I'd like to be surrounded by good-natured people who like me and are excited about what they're doing. I wouldn't mind having children eventually, to keep life interesting. I'd like to live a long time, to remain in good health. I'd like a lot of free time; I'd like to be left to my own devices. My desires are not complex or unusual.

This seems to trouble people, and gets me lectured a lot. It scared the hell out of Patrick, and out of Raine. Mom seems to get it; so do REL and Tom. Uncle Rex and Dad still think it's part of some master plan that I will unspring at a later date. I don't know Ciro's feelings on the subject.

Mostly, I keep hearing that I should think of the long run - figure out not what makes me happy now, but what would make me happy later. I must admit that sounds productive. If only it were possible...

Oh.

This whole thing is about autism. Visual thinking and Asperger's Syndrome. I can't feel the passage of time; now is always. My wants are unusual because they are built around non-neurotypical thinking needs. This last paragraph has taken me almost an hour, because I hit sensory overload and lost language skills. (Switched off the music to help, but then a thunderstorm broke outside.) Oh, of course. Why didn't anyone tell me?

I bet Thoreau was autistic.