How I Perceive the World
Jan. 22nd, 2025 09:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeRogan: another aphantasia post! Realized it’d be easier to convey the sensory experience through text!
I wake up in the morning. The “real” sun is beaming through the “real” window, and I am snug and warm under the blankets. In our headspace, I am also in bed, also snug and warm, but there is no sun, and I couldn’t perceive it if there were. Instead, there is Mac, a warm drowsing weight over my chest and side. He is still asleep.
This is my favorite everyday joy. Mac sleeps like a cat in a sunbeam, all sprawled contentment and relaxation. He feels wonderful, and I am happy that I get to experience this damn near everyday, creek don’t rise.
Mac wakes slowly, pleasantly. I feel his awareness kindle, like a sunbeam slowly illuminating a dark room. He stretches, and I feel the blissful languor in his muscles, the sunwarmth crinkle of his smile. Mac has always been as warm and bright and shining as the sun; like a plant, I orient to him.
“Good morning,” he says, and I feel the words take shape on my lips, tongue, and throat. His voice is secondary; these days, I don’t hear it so much as his voice filtered through our vessel’s voice box, how he sounds when he fronts, which is pretty different anatomically.
I snuggle him, bury my hands in his fiery torrent of hair, and say good morning back.
Thanks to years of being in his personal space, I know what Mac’s face looks like. His hair is a deep brick red that I’ve only seen on one corporeal person (a guy we knew in high school, who also had the sense to keep such amazing hair long), and his eyes are a medium brown—not as dark as Bob’s black coffee ones, but not with the lighter gold flecks Biff’s have. (I would struggle describing anyone else’s eyes here in such detail; I can only do it with them because I’m up in their faces all the time.) His skin is pale, though not as much as Gigi’s, and his shoulders are dappled with light freckles, though not his face.
Those aren’t the essence of Mac to me, though. It’s the crinkles at his eyes from a million smiles, the textures of his hair, the feeling of his free, delighted laugh, the smell of his skin.
We get up. Our room in the headspace treehouse is a glassish dome, ringed with white curtains, but the curtains being up and down make no difference to me, so I mostly forget their existence unless Mac asks me to shut them. The floor of our room is smooth wood under my bare feet. (I used to always wear shoes—habit from a youth where I might have to bolt the house at a moment’s notice—but I feel safer now, and prefer to feel the headspace under my feet.) Meanwhile, simultaneously in the “real” world, the floor is vinyl pseudo wood under my knees as I roll up and put away our blankets, pillow, and futon. The worlds layer over each other, but calm, everyday activities like this aren’t difficult to multitask.
As our vessel hits bathroom and kitchen to make breakfast (leftover oatmeal made by Biff, put in a bowl cozy and microwaved, then with raisins and yogurt added), I walk out onto the black wrought iron framing of our treehouse. (Even I can perceive that color! It’s so high contrast. Couldn’t tell you the pattern or weave of it, though.)
Grey is in her porch swing, a solid heavy wood thing chained to one of the enormous oak’s branches. I feel her turn, noting me, the movement of her head, then the gentle bloom of her smile. I wave to her. Others are making their way out—Bob yawning in his terrycloth bathrobe, soft and rough, mug of coffee warm in his hand. He wakes up slowly, grudgingly. Mori and Rawlin are missing, but I’m not worried; I can vaguely feel them, out in Rawlin’s territory, her den most likely. They’re radiating a quiet, gentle “intimate time, do not disturb,” a mental sticky note Rawlin likely put up, so I leave them to it.
Gigi I only become aware of when she wants me to be. I’m used to it; she’s sneaky, and I never worry, because I trust her to always be around. (And if something were wrong, Falcon would surely be radiating alarm and bursting in. He feels like bitter coffee and uberdark chocolate.)
Sneak is bright and bouncy, always energetic, a human sugar rush. Ze’s eager to get our day started, and as our vessel eats and dresses and brushes teeth, the group of us idly discuss our plans or desires for the day. Midway through, Mori and Rawlin join us—they feel leaden, tired, and sad, and I’m unsurprised when Mori says she had an episode. Those are draining, and she journals it out so we can listen, learn, and comfort her.
Biff reminds us we need groceries and that today is a belated compost day; he requests the time and we allot it to him. Mori wants to do some journal transcription, a donkey labor task we hardly ever want to do, so she also gets her dibs. Sneak has a less pressing thing ze wants, a picture frame for a photo that won’t stop curling up off the wall, and Biff says he can hit the Salvation Army next time we go to the sci-fi library; they’ll surely have plenty of cheap frames lying around. Sneak thanks him.
As we talk, I feel everyone—Bob’s fatigue, Mori’s episode hangover, Rawlin’s sadness for her sweetheart’s suffering, Sneak’s cheer, Mac’s sunlight—and I am content. All is well in my world, the pains are ones we have dealt with hundreds of times, and we are as prepared for the day as life allows.
Shall we go running? We check Biff’s little thermometer, hanging just outside our “real” window. Twenties. Layer up and we will be fine, and Mori wants the physiological reset of the run. A mile around Harvard won’t solve our problems, but it will make us feel more up to the burden.
We dress for the run. Miranda insists on elegant tights, white puffy jacket, an earband. Rawlin hates wearing anything, but even her fur at maximum fluff can’t compensate for Boston winter, so she has to run in a thick blanket poncho, belted in to try and prevent inevitable flapping. I have to wear something similar, with my wings. Everyone else sticks with sweats.
We walk our vessel out to Harvard, a warmup. My awareness of headspace fades, since I have to focus on not banging into any tourists or tripping over turkeys (magnificent birds, Mori says, because they give zero shits). My headmates seem to run around and next to me, a pack of water droplets forever splitting and rejoining around obstacles, but I mostly lose track of their details unless they’re thinking or talking. Biff’s chest and lungs burn, residual effects of twenty years of smoking. Mac is happy and soaring—he loves to exercise with company. Grey, who already ran three miles at dawn, is quiet, calm, and still, like deep water.
Mori is struggling, her head full of fog and stormclouds. She bitches about the political climate to me, glowers at the cybertruck parked in Harvard yard... a task I wouldn’t wish on a minor enemy. Around the midpoint, endorphins kick in, soothing her. Sneak excitedly notes that the recessive red pigeon is back; we hadn’t seen it in a while.
My people run with and around me, the winter air cold in our lungs, the cobblestones sure under our feet. I and we are a part of this city, this society, this world, this people, this system, a glimmering raindrop suspended at the intersection of countless webs of relation. I belong to these webs, and I am content.
I wake up in the morning. The “real” sun is beaming through the “real” window, and I am snug and warm under the blankets. In our headspace, I am also in bed, also snug and warm, but there is no sun, and I couldn’t perceive it if there were. Instead, there is Mac, a warm drowsing weight over my chest and side. He is still asleep.
This is my favorite everyday joy. Mac sleeps like a cat in a sunbeam, all sprawled contentment and relaxation. He feels wonderful, and I am happy that I get to experience this damn near everyday, creek don’t rise.
Mac wakes slowly, pleasantly. I feel his awareness kindle, like a sunbeam slowly illuminating a dark room. He stretches, and I feel the blissful languor in his muscles, the sunwarmth crinkle of his smile. Mac has always been as warm and bright and shining as the sun; like a plant, I orient to him.
“Good morning,” he says, and I feel the words take shape on my lips, tongue, and throat. His voice is secondary; these days, I don’t hear it so much as his voice filtered through our vessel’s voice box, how he sounds when he fronts, which is pretty different anatomically.
I snuggle him, bury my hands in his fiery torrent of hair, and say good morning back.
Thanks to years of being in his personal space, I know what Mac’s face looks like. His hair is a deep brick red that I’ve only seen on one corporeal person (a guy we knew in high school, who also had the sense to keep such amazing hair long), and his eyes are a medium brown—not as dark as Bob’s black coffee ones, but not with the lighter gold flecks Biff’s have. (I would struggle describing anyone else’s eyes here in such detail; I can only do it with them because I’m up in their faces all the time.) His skin is pale, though not as much as Gigi’s, and his shoulders are dappled with light freckles, though not his face.
Those aren’t the essence of Mac to me, though. It’s the crinkles at his eyes from a million smiles, the textures of his hair, the feeling of his free, delighted laugh, the smell of his skin.
We get up. Our room in the headspace treehouse is a glassish dome, ringed with white curtains, but the curtains being up and down make no difference to me, so I mostly forget their existence unless Mac asks me to shut them. The floor of our room is smooth wood under my bare feet. (I used to always wear shoes—habit from a youth where I might have to bolt the house at a moment’s notice—but I feel safer now, and prefer to feel the headspace under my feet.) Meanwhile, simultaneously in the “real” world, the floor is vinyl pseudo wood under my knees as I roll up and put away our blankets, pillow, and futon. The worlds layer over each other, but calm, everyday activities like this aren’t difficult to multitask.
As our vessel hits bathroom and kitchen to make breakfast (leftover oatmeal made by Biff, put in a bowl cozy and microwaved, then with raisins and yogurt added), I walk out onto the black wrought iron framing of our treehouse. (Even I can perceive that color! It’s so high contrast. Couldn’t tell you the pattern or weave of it, though.)
Grey is in her porch swing, a solid heavy wood thing chained to one of the enormous oak’s branches. I feel her turn, noting me, the movement of her head, then the gentle bloom of her smile. I wave to her. Others are making their way out—Bob yawning in his terrycloth bathrobe, soft and rough, mug of coffee warm in his hand. He wakes up slowly, grudgingly. Mori and Rawlin are missing, but I’m not worried; I can vaguely feel them, out in Rawlin’s territory, her den most likely. They’re radiating a quiet, gentle “intimate time, do not disturb,” a mental sticky note Rawlin likely put up, so I leave them to it.
Gigi I only become aware of when she wants me to be. I’m used to it; she’s sneaky, and I never worry, because I trust her to always be around. (And if something were wrong, Falcon would surely be radiating alarm and bursting in. He feels like bitter coffee and uberdark chocolate.)
Sneak is bright and bouncy, always energetic, a human sugar rush. Ze’s eager to get our day started, and as our vessel eats and dresses and brushes teeth, the group of us idly discuss our plans or desires for the day. Midway through, Mori and Rawlin join us—they feel leaden, tired, and sad, and I’m unsurprised when Mori says she had an episode. Those are draining, and she journals it out so we can listen, learn, and comfort her.
Biff reminds us we need groceries and that today is a belated compost day; he requests the time and we allot it to him. Mori wants to do some journal transcription, a donkey labor task we hardly ever want to do, so she also gets her dibs. Sneak has a less pressing thing ze wants, a picture frame for a photo that won’t stop curling up off the wall, and Biff says he can hit the Salvation Army next time we go to the sci-fi library; they’ll surely have plenty of cheap frames lying around. Sneak thanks him.
As we talk, I feel everyone—Bob’s fatigue, Mori’s episode hangover, Rawlin’s sadness for her sweetheart’s suffering, Sneak’s cheer, Mac’s sunlight—and I am content. All is well in my world, the pains are ones we have dealt with hundreds of times, and we are as prepared for the day as life allows.
Shall we go running? We check Biff’s little thermometer, hanging just outside our “real” window. Twenties. Layer up and we will be fine, and Mori wants the physiological reset of the run. A mile around Harvard won’t solve our problems, but it will make us feel more up to the burden.
We dress for the run. Miranda insists on elegant tights, white puffy jacket, an earband. Rawlin hates wearing anything, but even her fur at maximum fluff can’t compensate for Boston winter, so she has to run in a thick blanket poncho, belted in to try and prevent inevitable flapping. I have to wear something similar, with my wings. Everyone else sticks with sweats.
We walk our vessel out to Harvard, a warmup. My awareness of headspace fades, since I have to focus on not banging into any tourists or tripping over turkeys (magnificent birds, Mori says, because they give zero shits). My headmates seem to run around and next to me, a pack of water droplets forever splitting and rejoining around obstacles, but I mostly lose track of their details unless they’re thinking or talking. Biff’s chest and lungs burn, residual effects of twenty years of smoking. Mac is happy and soaring—he loves to exercise with company. Grey, who already ran three miles at dawn, is quiet, calm, and still, like deep water.
Mori is struggling, her head full of fog and stormclouds. She bitches about the political climate to me, glowers at the cybertruck parked in Harvard yard... a task I wouldn’t wish on a minor enemy. Around the midpoint, endorphins kick in, soothing her. Sneak excitedly notes that the recessive red pigeon is back; we hadn’t seen it in a while.
My people run with and around me, the winter air cold in our lungs, the cobblestones sure under our feet. I and we are a part of this city, this society, this world, this people, this system, a glimmering raindrop suspended at the intersection of countless webs of relation. I belong to these webs, and I am content.
no subject
Date: 2025-01-28 02:35 am (UTC)Mori: As a fellow rat creature, I too respect the humble pigeon as a symbol of indomitable downward mobility.