![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Yesterday I had to take my son to the airport in San Francisco. His flight left at 7 in the morning, and you have to be there at least an hour early, right? And even though it usually takes less, we allow two hours to get there in case there's a catastrophe on 17. So, doing the math, I figured, leave at 4, get back by 8:30, counting dropoff time and getting gas. Which meant I had to get up at 3. But the point is, there wasa catastrophe on 17, and I still got back by 6:30. And I was prety well law-abiding.
He's going to a generic convention and then to the Republican one, where he will join the thronging masses attempting to protest the Bush administration and incidentally visit with the young man who "violated" the MPAA copyright by downloading Noam Chomsky speeches. Sam's mother says she's worried that there will be a staged incident during the convention, and that the city will be sealed, and she wants Sam home during all that and not on the streets (and where was she in 1968? Hmm? The streets). Anyway, Sam says "If people did what their mothers told them, they'd never go anywhere. She didn't want me driving home from Boston in the rain."
Make of that what you will.
Anyway, yesterday could have been not wasted because I got home so early but I stupidly didn't go right back to bed so I spent the whole day in a useless daze and when I finally tried to take a nap I was harrassed by teaching nightmares. I did Sims stuff and sorted out books to sell and went to the farmer's market -- also got the sink clean and filled for Emma's and my contrast baths -- twice, like I'm supposed to. I'm such a slob that I have felt like a success doing it once a day.
Today, I am still hung over. But I'm just about to start pouring some effort into finishing the chapter. I think I've worked out what's happening here. It isn't exactly pretty but it's not really nasty either -- there's some competition between Forager Girl and her roommate over the new guys they pick up. Because of her ultimate ambitions, Forager Girl doesn't really care to get very involved, but the roommate (Winston? Or should he have a simpler name?) likes drama . . . my guy, naturally, gets the crossfire.
I haven't even written dinner yet!
Anyway, the way I see it now, the rest of this chapter gets them through dinner and some jockeying for my guy's body, and next chapter Winston takes my guy to Labor Ready.
I don't know, maybe the book is a travelogue of poverty in California (mostly the South Bay and Central Coast, with a couple of excursions to San Francisco and the Central Valley -- the truck stop near Bakersfield doesn't count). But what I have in mind isn't that. What I have in mind is my guy's story, and the thing with Candelario being generous and Araceli being (com)passionate, and the thing at last of my guy losing what he has to get what he needs, oh oops, but that's about story, not philosophy, unless there's no difference. But the story takes place mostly among the very poor -- the only people who come into it who aren't the very poor are the various magician types, the truck driver, and Bob. But that's because it's the story that it is. I didn't start out with "I know, a contemporary fantasy set among the very poor!" I started out with, as usual, a conversation -- one which no longer exists, exactly -- it was the way that Candelario and my guy originally met, which is entirely different now, but still involves a hurt leg and an inherited truck.
He's going to a generic convention and then to the Republican one, where he will join the thronging masses attempting to protest the Bush administration and incidentally visit with the young man who "violated" the MPAA copyright by downloading Noam Chomsky speeches. Sam's mother says she's worried that there will be a staged incident during the convention, and that the city will be sealed, and she wants Sam home during all that and not on the streets (and where was she in 1968? Hmm? The streets). Anyway, Sam says "If people did what their mothers told them, they'd never go anywhere. She didn't want me driving home from Boston in the rain."
Make of that what you will.
Anyway, yesterday could have been not wasted because I got home so early but I stupidly didn't go right back to bed so I spent the whole day in a useless daze and when I finally tried to take a nap I was harrassed by teaching nightmares. I did Sims stuff and sorted out books to sell and went to the farmer's market -- also got the sink clean and filled for Emma's and my contrast baths -- twice, like I'm supposed to. I'm such a slob that I have felt like a success doing it once a day.
Today, I am still hung over. But I'm just about to start pouring some effort into finishing the chapter. I think I've worked out what's happening here. It isn't exactly pretty but it's not really nasty either -- there's some competition between Forager Girl and her roommate over the new guys they pick up. Because of her ultimate ambitions, Forager Girl doesn't really care to get very involved, but the roommate (Winston? Or should he have a simpler name?) likes drama . . . my guy, naturally, gets the crossfire.
I haven't even written dinner yet!
Anyway, the way I see it now, the rest of this chapter gets them through dinner and some jockeying for my guy's body, and next chapter Winston takes my guy to Labor Ready.
I don't know, maybe the book is a travelogue of poverty in California (mostly the South Bay and Central Coast, with a couple of excursions to San Francisco and the Central Valley -- the truck stop near Bakersfield doesn't count). But what I have in mind isn't that. What I have in mind is my guy's story, and the thing with Candelario being generous and Araceli being (com)passionate, and the thing at last of my guy losing what he has to get what he needs, oh oops, but that's about story, not philosophy, unless there's no difference. But the story takes place mostly among the very poor -- the only people who come into it who aren't the very poor are the various magician types, the truck driver, and Bob. But that's because it's the story that it is. I didn't start out with "I know, a contemporary fantasy set among the very poor!" I started out with, as usual, a conversation -- one which no longer exists, exactly -- it was the way that Candelario and my guy originally met, which is entirely different now, but still involves a hurt leg and an inherited truck.