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I just about finished, I think, the little vignette that goes between the chapter I'm writing at home and the next chapter. I decided to work on that because I need to do some more research before I finish the story about tying vines (and I have to figure out exactly what happens! I don't do so well, writing to find things out), and because I don't want to haul the whole big novella-length chapter back and forth. I didn't realize until I wrote it that I had such a very vague idea about this vignette, but it didn't matter, because it turned out to be a double riff on police riots at demonstrations and the impact of massacre on people far away. And the confusion and divisions in mass movements. I need a more direct appearance for the child without a country and his mother, so there's a little work yet to be done, of the polishing sort.
The husband of my befuddled friend is out of the hospital so now I am keeping company with two old folks and their seventeen year-old Jacxk Russell terrier. Now that Jim's home and he's not in imminent danger of dying, Gloria's much more cogent and she's feeling resentful of being pushed around and patronized. So I'm not pushing her around or patronizing her. Since we're worried about her losing count of her headache pills, people have been hiding them but we worked out a system to put five in a bottle that's hers to use as she sees the need -- she can't harm herself with that many even if she does lose count. And I take her wherever she wants to go and pretty much do whatever she wants. Jim is determined not to need anything, so he insists on making his own lunch and he even drove his car a little today to establish that he can do it, though he's not really strong enough to drive himself to dialysis at this point.
Jim's patience wears thin when Gloria's doing the things she does to try to make snese of her stuff. She falters, she starts sentences, she goes through things and tries to tell you about them, and she's especially concerned about her bank account. None of this bothers me. So a lot of what I'm there for, I guess, is to be a buffer.
The geriatric dog is a delight. She perks up for a few minutes at a time and wants to play chase. She runs like a fat cartoon dog, though she isn't fat.
And the other thing -- well, they live in the hills on the northwest side of the Pajaro Valley, up a long windy road, with a beautiful view of the hillside, all oak and miner's lettuce, wildlife and all. Cottontails, quails, redtails, and today I saw three birds whose names I don't know. I can understand why Jim and Gloria don't want to move. Though I'd never move to such a place myself. I hate their driveway: it freaks me out to walk on it, let alone drive on it, and when it's wet I grip the wheel with a fierce lock.
The husband of my befuddled friend is out of the hospital so now I am keeping company with two old folks and their seventeen year-old Jacxk Russell terrier. Now that Jim's home and he's not in imminent danger of dying, Gloria's much more cogent and she's feeling resentful of being pushed around and patronized. So I'm not pushing her around or patronizing her. Since we're worried about her losing count of her headache pills, people have been hiding them but we worked out a system to put five in a bottle that's hers to use as she sees the need -- she can't harm herself with that many even if she does lose count. And I take her wherever she wants to go and pretty much do whatever she wants. Jim is determined not to need anything, so he insists on making his own lunch and he even drove his car a little today to establish that he can do it, though he's not really strong enough to drive himself to dialysis at this point.
Jim's patience wears thin when Gloria's doing the things she does to try to make snese of her stuff. She falters, she starts sentences, she goes through things and tries to tell you about them, and she's especially concerned about her bank account. None of this bothers me. So a lot of what I'm there for, I guess, is to be a buffer.
The geriatric dog is a delight. She perks up for a few minutes at a time and wants to play chase. She runs like a fat cartoon dog, though she isn't fat.
And the other thing -- well, they live in the hills on the northwest side of the Pajaro Valley, up a long windy road, with a beautiful view of the hillside, all oak and miner's lettuce, wildlife and all. Cottontails, quails, redtails, and today I saw three birds whose names I don't know. I can understand why Jim and Gloria don't want to move. Though I'd never move to such a place myself. I hate their driveway: it freaks me out to walk on it, let alone drive on it, and when it's wet I grip the wheel with a fierce lock.
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