the danger of cookies

I cannot argue with evening cookies at a B&B.

That was the opening thought. The followup thought, which entered contention 24 hours later, is that neither can I argue with an evening cookie plus a glass of Gato Negro burgundy/merlot at the same B&B. These things counterbalanced the slip-ups and near misses as we almost lost Jeff several times over the course of a weekend.

Actually, I think we only almost lost him twice: Once, when Gabe--unaware of the weight that the instruction "watch your dad" now carries--failed to do so in the grocery store, and Jeff skedaddled down the row of cashier lanes after who-knows-who. I exited, to have a look outside and alert my mother to our code orange, while Gabe stood by in the store and soon apprehended his father, who was no worse for wear. The second time was when Jeff balked at the top of the escalator in New Haven Union Station as Mom, I, and about 100 other people took off for track 1 the second they gave us our track assignment. Which was about 2½ minutes before scheduled departure. I was half-way down yelling "Jeff! Get on!" as an anxious crowd formed a clog behind him. With my roll-aboard occupying one hand, and my satchel of paperwork the other, he had to follow me without physical contact.

Mom is no doubt wondering (as she sits just behind me in Amtrak Coach, New Haven to BWI,) exactly how I plan to hang onto Jeff next week, as we depart on our cross-country train trip just as the two of us. The only answer I can supply myself is that--without the presence of a third party to help--my diligence dial will be set at maximum. Additionally, I intend to inscribe or embroider my cell phone number, in large numerals, on his black "sport-band" medical alert i.d.

As for the trip--we come away with the positive sense that Gabe is striding in the direction of independence and adulthood, and it was a fine thing for his grandmother to get a glimpse of his current school and world. I also continue to be impressed that maritime Connecticut is a region I could happily pass a good deal more time in. Mark Twain's house was not enough. I'd very much like to see the Mashantucket Pequot Museum of Native American History (bypassing the Foxwoods casino, operated by the same tribe,) and hit a few choice stops on the Connecticut Wine Trail.

Texts from the home-front indicate that Hazel will not eat her medicated food when I have so rudely interrupted her expectations by vamoosing, but I hope she'll get over it. I am not anxious to institute the wrapped-cat and pill-plunger method of cyclosporin delivery. Hence, I am feeling a tad guilty, especially in light of the fact that we'll be hitting the road again in 5 days. But really...here's the choice: Spend an extra week mollifying a fussy kitty, or experience (for the very first time) a sleeper car. No choice at all. Sorry Hazel.

applecarts are made for upsetting.

Lately I've been inclined to notice that my pet-load is, for me, at a plateau of relative manageability. I've had more and I've had fewer, but Chessie, Freddi, and Hazel--while none the most easy-going of critters--have established preferences and ways of dealing with each other such that, pet-wise, we were as close to equilibrium as we ever get.

It is true that both Freddi and Hazel require expensive pills--Freddi for her funky dysplastic hips, and Hazel for her funky overexcitable immune system--but we've got everything tamped down to a sub-acute level, routines in place...well, they were.

There's a recognizable pattern that's followed me through life: As soon as I start telling myself "this, I can handle..." then it's time to look for the next ball to thwang, fast and furious, into left field. This time, the ball's name is Otis, and he comes to us thanks to BARCS (Baltimore Animal Care and Rescue Shelter,) and the fostering tendencies of Olivia's boyfriend's kin.

Otis just got neutered on Tuesday, and he's roughly the size of a large squirrel. He moved in last night, and Becca kept him company on the computer room couch where--if I have the story straight--she got minimal sleep, but experienced a good bit of pouncing kitten. As of today, his "room" is Freddi's dog crate (the one she uses for thunderstorms,) in the middle of the kitchen, where he can see (and therefore acclimate to) the noises and personalities with which he can expect to be surrounded.

This is a well-socialized kitty. No feral tendencies whatsoever, as he was born into foster care. You pick him up, and he shuts his eyes and yawns languorously, stretching a bit, anticipating a belly rub. But, with the other animals, he's got some stuff to work out. Only it's not his stuff, it's their stuff.

Freddi hasn't a maternal bone in her body, that I can detect. Possibly, it was located in the top ball of her femur--the one they took off due to dysplasia when she was 1 year old. But it's gone now, and--in her opinion--kitties should be toys. Hence, their interactions mostly involve Freddi bouncing at Otis, who sequesters himself under a hutch, or chair, until the dog is distracted by anything else. We must take care--Freddi's bouncing 45 lbs could be a safety hazard to a kitty who has not yet learned the value of a well-placed bop on the nose, claws optional.

Chessie and Hazel, both divas who merely tolerate, and occasionally taunt, each other, don't seem to be of the opinion that another cat was needed here. Hazel makes sure we're clear on her feelings...yes, I may rub her back...yes, I may turn on the sink a trickle for her drinking pleasure...but she's going to emit a low growly howl the whole time, just so I know I am NOT in her good graces. (Hazel would especially not appreciate Otis' countertop explorations today, when--upon discovering the kitchen sink--he promptly peed in it. I'm discouraging further countertop adventures for now.)

I am in good shape through the upcoming weekend. On Monday, Olivia will return to college, and it will be up to me and Becca (but mostly me, due to work and boyfriend obligations,) to keep everyone happy.

I like it pretty.

Who gets a headache from vegetarian sushi? Well, me. Yesterday was the second time I noticed what appears to be a cause and effect relationship between the Fresh Market veggie rolls of which I’m fond, and a follow-up headache. I’m going to blame it on the MSG. There should not be MSG in sushi--absolutely no excuse for it--but there it was, plain as splotchy grocery store label font, slapped on the tray. MSG. And not only that, but aspartame. eh...what?

Now that I think this through, I do recall that the Fresh Market veggie rolls had a little more zizz...a little more bite than the comparable ones I’ve gotten at Whole Foods Market. Not that you’d expect too much zizz from rice, a few strips of carrot, and a plug of avocado. That’s what the small plop of wasabi they give you is for, if you so desire. And now that I know the truth, and its effects, I’m ready to rededicate myself to the crunchy ideals of Whole Foods ingredient taboos, and hone my appreciation for carrot as carrot.

In Annapolis, there are three main competitors in the not-your-mainstream-grocery-store game. The two aforementioned plus Trader Joe’s. This trio meets my grocery needs. I only venture into the closer-to-home Giant and Safeway when I have an urgent need. I admit to being a food and shopping elitist, but plead that my reasons are legit, and grounded securely in honest self-knowledge.

Safeway (west a couple miles, in the vicinity of my mom’s and sister’s homes,) is almost tolerable. They just don’t have everything I like. Giant (closest to me) is a total sensory trial. The lighting is harsh, disorienting, and leaves my brain swimming in a sort of paranoid surreality. The aisles are tall, canyonesquely narrow, and chock-a-block with items, only 0.75% of which I’d ever consider purchasing. This makes finding what I want a bit like playing Where’s Waldo?(.) There are a few other popular American franchises that have a similar effect on me. I walk in and react as if someone just blew an airhorn, turned on a disco ball, and launched a line of dancing Glenn Becks in my face. In other words, I want to leave.

I don’t exactly know how to account for my reaction. I cannot believe that a major player such as Giant Food has not done exhaustive merchandising research. Apparently I am just a psychological outlier.

The Fresh Market, on the other hand, taking over the space held by Whole Foods until they moved to bigger digs, is pretty. It’s restful. It’s calm. They play nice music. They give you free tiny coffees. They do not, however, have the purity of ingredient shtick thing that defines Whole Foods Market. If I had to summarize Fresh Market’s niche in one line, it would be “we’re prettier than those guys.” You can get napkins or paper plates, but they’re going to be pretty. There are a few cosmetics, but only pretty ones. And if it’s food that comes in a jar, it’s going to be a pretty jar. Of that you can be sure. That of which you cannot be sure is whether a given item will contain chemical additives that you’d typically prefer to avoid. Some things do, some things don’t. It takes label reading. (And now, in my case, 1.50+ pocket-sized magnifying glasses which--I think--I got at Whole Foods.)

I’m sure that I will continue to covet and purchase chocolate cupcakes with white frosting from Fresh Market. Also, indubitably, Thomas’ cinnamon-raisin bagels, unsalted mixed nuts, and a batch of other items which can be happily obtained from any member of my grocery trio.

But when it comes to veggie sushi...well, we’ll let Whole Foods speak for itself, from its own website:

“We carry natural and organic products because we believe that food in its purest state — unadulterated by artificial additives, sweeteners, colorings, and preservatives — is the best tasting and most nutritious food available.”

And least likely, in the case of sushi, to give me a headache.

So yep. That’s me: crunch-elitist. (except where cupcakes are concerned.) I will be sure not to run for President, because the populists would probably use this against me.

Alpha house, alpha kitty

Today, at Clement Hardware, I charged the following items to the Jeff Clement account: 2 bungie cords (for helping Rachel move tomorrow a.m...might need'em to hold down the hatch, if mattresses are too big, and the rest of this stuff has nothing to do with Rachel's move...) 1 can Great Stuff spray-foam (for sealing the gaps between the drywall and tile in the bathroom ceiling,) 1 tube marine-grade silicone caulk (for rain-proofing the back threshold,) 1 roll foam caulk (which I'll stuff in the crack before applying the silicone,) 1 roll of tubular vinyl gasket (for attempting a waterproof seal on the lower back door, thus banning rain influx forever,) and 1 bag of spice drops (because we never get out of that place without spice drops. I don't eat them. Don't look at me.)

Accompanying this initiative is a decidedly pleasant peaceful feeling, leading me to believe I may, finally, be reaching some sort of emotional accord with this house.

I'll be honest--I've entertained the notion for years that I'd run away...nay, that I MUST run away...to Eastport (popularly known, locally, as The Maritime Republic of Eastport.) It's just across the drawbridge from Historic Annapolis, and has held the role--in my daydream--of the place which would shake me out of the Alzheimer-caregiver 'am I eighty years old, or what?' doldrums.

But now let's be really honest--I would still require a house. It would still require maintenance. I would still be in charge of the maintenance. I would still be an Alzheimer caregiver. Life would not suddenly start to happen in new and surprising ways, and I seriously doubt if Clarence (my cross-eyed muse,) would improve in work ethic by any measure just because of a change of residence.

Those things are pretty much true. But I attribute my improvement in attitude to factors other than logic and reason. All the road-tripping I've done this Fall has, and will be, a big help. And I do believe that fixing the downstairs shower drip was--in a weirdly out of proportion way--a breakthrough moment. (Thanks to brother-in-law Fred, who was big help with that project.) Somehow, I've acquired the feeling that, by tackling maintenance bug-a-boos one on one (and even very slowly,) I am establishing an alpha position with this house that I never required prior to Jeff losing his powers. So, in a way, this house is a little like a big dog over which I had no control, so I wanted to give it away and get a puppy instead.

If it is well-maintained and orderly, it no longer feels like a box in which I am trapped. If I know I CAN sell it if I want to, I no longer feel a panicky compulsion to do so.

Thus, the latest bag of Clement Hardware goodies. Next up: weather-seal the back door. Staggered, in the interest of covering all the bases, with reading Bill Bryson to Jeff, eking out a line or two of my book, getting the heck out of here once in a while, and not-cooking.

Who knows? Cooking may be the next dog I stare down. But I doubt it.

(And have I mentioned that a new kitten is moving in here next week? Because apparently our 3 existing pets aren't needy enough? Stay tuned...)

Coffee won't help.

I'm trying to remember how I did it. Quite a few years ago, during the earlier seasons of Survivor, (you know, reality TV--put people on a jungly-beach and watch them act stupid,) I wrote a humorous online column, re-hashing--through my own fractured filter--each episode.

I'm not really sure how I wrangled my brain into cooperating. See, I'd watch the show from 8 to 9 p.m., then--within roughly an hour and a half--I'd spin out a sufficiently clever synopsis that at least a few people around the globe (I got emails) would come back for more on a weekly basis.

I'm not a night person, is the thing. So that wasn't easy. And, right now (9:50 p.m. Toshiba time,) I'm testing to see whether I can still formulate sentences after dark. The reason I want to know is that there are generally 2-3 hours per night that I spend awake, alone, and wondering wtf. Jeff goes to bed at 7 or 8, depending on whether I have something on tv with which to engage him. Then, I spend the next couple hours either websurfing, tv-surfing, or just sort of otherwise lost in space.

I tell myself I'm too tired to do anything much. And I think it's true. Making intelligent decisions about which objects from the hall closet go in the throwaway or the giveaway bags is not something I'm willing to do with half a brain. Nor would I care to attempt my "real" writing project, half checked out. But I'm not ready for bed, and--with the right topic--I might just be able to reactivate my columnist neural network.

By the way...THIS is not the right topic. This is just practice. And I hear a problem. Footsteps. This means that Jeff woke up enough to go to the bathroom, and--when he is done--he will get back into bed diagonally or maybe even upside-down, such that I will have to shove a bit (creating further disorientation) when I try to fit. Furthermore, he will have his hands under his head with his left elbow sticking halfway across my pillow. I might be able to re-shape him, like Gumby, but I might just cause havoc. So, make sure--if you're a couple, and one of you is planning to become cognitively impaired--to buy your queen bed now, and not still have a regular old full-size (like I do) when the time comes to sleep in it all crooked.

So, how about that? Writing after partial brain shutdown. It would be appropriate if there were a glowing light, slowly pulsating off and on on my forehead, to indicate that the hard drive is not quite up and responsive. I guess Survivor lends itself to commentary by the alertness impaired. I'll have to make note of future topics that could be similarly impervious to nonsensical rambling.

Clairvoyant or not, I still need new sunglasses.

We are home, for three weeks. Although we munched Connecticut-grown Macoun apples while zipping south on the New Jersey turnpike, we haven't needed much else in the way of food today. It was that breakfast near Manasquan, coastal NJ, in a local dive called Mariners' Cove. They offered 200+ omelettes, described on a tabloid-sized menu, and while the spoons per se were not greasy, the food decidedly was. Still, it was clearly popular with the locals, and a steady crew moved in and out while we ate. Nevermind that they were all men, every one of whom looked like he must have bellowed "STELLAAAA!" out his side door before giving up and hitting The Cove. Stella, apparently, was not forthcoming with the breakfast this morning.

So, yes...in three weeks it's back up by Amtrak, for Family Weekend, with my mom in tow. It's a busy Fall. Yesterday, tooling from Connecticut to Jersey, I experienced one of those moments of clairvoyance that I don't quite believe in. Despite the fact that they seem to always end up true. I don't believe in clairvoyance, (or, leastwise, I am stubbornly determined not to,) but my record--skepticism or not--is hard to argue with. If everything turns out fine (at least according to current norms,) and the status is quo after this Fall, then I'll laugh at clairvoyance and tell it I knew it was full of beans. But here's what it says: It's that the busyness of this Fall is my instinctive (almost primordial) reaction to realizing that Jeff's and my time to do this stuff together is drawing to a rapid close. He is going functionally blind, and I sense the pitch of the decline to be growing more acute.

Functionally blind a la Benson's syndrome, of course, bears only surface resemblance to eyes that don't work. A blind person can compensate by means of sharp senses and a clever mind. A victim of Posterior Cortical Atrophy cannot. His cognition is petering out across the board, and when he cannot identify a butter knife as a butter knife there is little he can do to work around that.

I knew about the incident in which he could not, momentarily, identify his brother. I've since learned it happened two weeks earlier as well, with his sister. When he cannot peg me on sight, I don't think all will be lost. He's okay with being told, and accepts what you tell him with comfort and trust. But not knowing family, running into doors, almost eating butter wrappers, and falling over curbs are merely opening volleys in a condition that's poised to worsen exponentially, and--as it does--all bets are off vis-a-vis just what we can expect to do, outside of the safest and most carefully arranged of environments.

How I will manage, and what services I may seek to employ--not yet known. Clairvoyance doesn't like to fill in the details that way. (And trust me...I still don't trust it.)

Hello?

I don't know if Manasquan, New Jersey is the weirdest place on the east coast, but it's sure been the weird spot on our latest adventure.

We're staying at a place called The Inn on Main. It sounds quaint enough, doesn't it? But here's how it works: You pull into a marked parking spot behind a pleasantly shingled, but otherwise nondescript, building. There are two restaurants on the ground floor. Or are there? One's signage suggests a sushi joint, the other, an America Bistro. Both are abandoned and desolate--their tables forlorn and empty, save for askew tablecloths. Around the corner, in a bare tiled hallway, you push the elevator button. Your room is #202, and you have been instructed by email that there is no check-in. Instead, you will enter a particular code (which is related to your cell phone number) in the keypad on the doorknob, and go right in. In the elevator is a small sign, giving you the phone number for hotel staff, but you're clearly not expected to require them. We don't. On each of the doorways in the hotel corridor is a plaque reading: "The Warmest of Welcomes!" That's good. At least the plaque has good intentions, but the word "warmest" seems ironic given the utter lack of humans. The keypad grants us access into a clean and handsome (in a starkly generic way) room. I half expect that when I turn on the t.v. either Rod Serling, or maybe Will Ferrell, will fill us in on our next instructions. So we don't turn the t.v. on. Instead, we go out and drive around.

We view many grand houses but few dining establishments. We walk on the boardwalk, but not on the beach (which is chilly and windy...besides, we don't have the regulation beach badges.) We find an old-fashioned Italian place, and eat tasty heavy chow. Then we come back.

We have decided to make decaf in the room. I have used tiny 4 cup dripolaters, and I have used Keurig pods. This machine is something in between. You insert a mini disposable filter basket, pour one insulated cup full of water in the back of the machine, push the button, and let it dripolate right back into your cup. Hot. Not bad. Weird.

Tomorrow morning we will leave, having interacted with nary a human. There's no phone in here. I almost feel like a squatter. They don't serve breakfast, like our other two stops. Instead, we'll depart, looking for either Mariner's Cove or Ray's Café to please be open and functional.

Here's the thing: The reviewers on TripAdvisor.com overwhelmingly liked this place. I can usually trust those guys. Not that there's anything wrong with this it...it's just that this is a little too much anonymity even for me.

trains, (hydro?)planes, and automobiles...

It is late afternoon. Soon we will return to Gabe's house on campus and scoop him up for dinner in town, New London. What am I observing after his first 3 weeks away? (3 weeks...not a long time, is it?) He seems clean, and their dorm room--chock full with 3 boys--is NOT abysmally messy. Even Gabe's stuff isn't abysmally messy. I'll solicit his impression of where he stands on the privilege stratum (a leveling system whereby a steady hand on the self-responsibility wheel will move you up a step) at dinner. We'll eat Indian, or maybe Thai.

For now, Jeff and I have retired to our Inn down the road in Niantic. This room has windows and marina views on 3 sides, sea breezes, and is an eminently satisfactory place to recoup after plenty of driving.

I've asked myself if this is a crazy trip from the planning stage to now, in the thick of it. Three lodging stops for the core goal of checking in with the kid, barely a month into his semester. But there's more to it for me. Jeff doesn't know where we are from one minute to the next, but he goes with the program...nary a complaint...only wondering occasionally if it might be time to eat. If we stay out of teeming throngs (malls, let's say,) I can keep him on a loose enough rein that he's happy and one place is as good as another.

But I have a sense that we're reaching the end of the time we can do this. That this season--this time we can travel--will end with an undeniable solstice, whether I like it or not. Every so often, a tell-tale leaf falls, and one just did. Gordon told me about it. Happened just a couple days ago when Jeff was with him at Helen's house in NY, during Wade's visit. An almost complete reunion of the Clement siblings. It was early morning, Helen's family room. Jeff looked at Gordon (the brother with whom he's been business partners for two decades,) and, with some concern, said "Who are you?" When Gordon gently revealed his identity Jeff relaxed visibly, chuckled, and sat down. But this was new. When, I wonder, will he be asking me the same thing?

Jeff is wearing his MedicAlert/Safe Return "sport band" i.d. without notice. I slipped it on next to the watch he can't read, muttering something about health insurance, and he nodded as if to give distracted assent. I don't believe he's paid a whit of attention to it since.

Now we'll go seek vittles with the newly-fledged college boy, and tomorrow Jeff and I will stop mid-way down the Atlantic Coast of New Jersey. I will point to things that would interest him. A few, he will look at; most he will stare obliquely past. Other things I will not point out, because they are of interest to me, and I'll tell myself all about them in the running dialog me and I have.

Right now, I am telling myself that there are a heap-load of boats docked at this marina in the Niantic River. And that--300 or so yards that-a-way, out the southern window--three Amtrak trains have hooted and rumbled by. I will not have trouble sleeping here. Gabe could have picked a worse spot to endure two semesters of maturing in exile.

it's what happens

I just found out that my next door neighbor died suddenly. She was about thirty-five and was, by vocation, a pet-sitter. Our pet-sitter, for one. And somebody else's pet-sitter, down the street, where she died, apparently suddenly and unexpectedly.

I keep looking over--there's her car, there's the fence, there's the rusty old shed that's been there for decades...This was someone who was useful in the community, who filled a needed niche and helped a number of elderly ladies. Someone to whom I could have been a better friend when she was a lonely kid.

I wonder how jaded it makes me, living with a husband who is taking a decade or two to die of an inexorably terminal condition. Am I more or less unsettled than someone who doesn't have the grim reaper penciled into her datebook under the vague heading to be continued...? Maybe I'm more stupefied than affected in any kind of a meaningful way. I just kind of look over and think oh...wow...shiznit.

Sometimes I wonder if it's even possible to get nearly through 5 decades of life and still find anything shocking or traumatizing, or do we all--after this much time--just look out the kitchen window and say to ourselves, "well, I wasn't expecting that one."

I don't think it's the same as being callous. I think I still register empathic pain, and I think I'll still reach out a hand if the obtusity of my mind permits me to notice a need. But, oh...wow...shiznit.

Bed, Bath, & Bewildered

Funny the way things snowball from maybe to imperative. Yesterday, I reached a certain point of conviction that it was time for a medical i.d. bracelet of some sort for Jeff. Today, I lost him in Bed, Bath & Beyond.

I was keeping him pretty close as we waited in line at the checkout to pay for two tablecloths. He tends to position himself awkwardly otherwise--either squarely in the middle of an aisle, such that no one can pass, or he confuses other shoppers who can’t quite tell if he’s in line or not. So, I had him with me until I turned my attention to the credit card box through which I’d just swiped my card. They’re all different, you know. Did this one have a screen that I’d need to pay attention to, or sign on, or would I be signing the paper slip? The slip, as it turned out, but by the time I gathered my tablecloths and receipt, Jeff had given me the slip.

Here is what must have happened: Somewhere in the two minutes when my attention was diverted, another woman with light hair must have come into his visual field. At which point he fixated on the wrong back of a head, and followed it out of the store.

Heaven knows whether the decoy Emily ever even noticed the guy trailing her at 10 paces, out the door, down the stairs, across the street. As Becca later observed--thank goodness he didn’t try to get in her car. I cannot say what happened to her, or even vouch for more than her probable existence, but after I’d made 3 circuits of the check-out zone and entryway, and 1 circuit of the entire store, I stepped outside to scope the surroundings. I was not feeling as calm and collected as I may seem relating the tale in written format.

This particular B,B&B is located one flight up from street level. I knew Jeff could have gone across the pedestrian bridge and into the parking garage, or down the stairs and who knows where from there? To my great relief, when I looked out over the street, from above, I spotted him standing patiently, with a slightly bewildered expression, at the street level entrance to the parking garage across the street below.

Down the stairs I skedaddled. “Where did you go?” I asked. He looked perplexed. What a question. “I didn’t go anywhere,” he said “I’ve been right here the whole time. You disappeared.” (I can only assume “you,” in this case, meant the decoy, who presumably escaped without ever becoming alarmed.) For a moment I protested that he’d disappeared as I was at the register...but this clearly bore zero resemblance to his reality, and I quickly dropped it. “I guess you walked into a wormhole,” I said.

In 10 minutes of lost-person, you can do a lot of thinking about how limited his resources are: He cannot call me because he does not remember my cell phone #, does not have a phone, does not know how to use one. He will not seek help, because he does not understand himself to be impaired. He is too far from home to walk back, and not in the neighborhood where 25% of the people know him by sight. No one will offer him help, because he looks relatively normal. But he does retain one trick, which he told me about at lunch, later. “This thing about being lost,” he said. “Ever since I was a kid, in boy scouts, it’s been hammered into me that if you’re lost, stay put and let someone find you.” So that’s what he did.

I am grateful he retains that tool. Now I must find something else to add to my own toolbox.

paring down.

Among the books on the desk alone are three copies of Benjamin Graham's The Intelligent Investor. Three different editions. Introductions by three different noteworthies. It is somewhere between art and skill, deciding which books to slip into the give-away bag. Two copies of Graham go. I leave enough that if Jeff tires of the 3 books he's been "reading" for the past 2 years, there's something else to offer. Anything with Warren Buffet's name on it is good.

He woke me up at 5:15 a.m. "Emily." he says. "Why and where?" It does not take much to rouse me, as I am primed for intervention. "Why and where what?" I say. At least he still knows "who." "Where are we, and what are we doing here?" "We are at home," I say, "trying to sleep for another hour." But it's somewhat too late. I've already been alerted to my bladder. What happens at night when I go to the bathroom is this: Jeff does not think Oh, me too. I'll go next. He skips straight to the I'll go part, and stands there in front of me, confounded to find there's someone else in the way. "I'll be done in a sec," I say. "Then we're going back to bed." Jeff says "Is there something to eat?" "Yes," I say. "In 45 minutes."

The book collection bag, in the hallway, has also swallowed several tomes on architecture. We have hundreds--mostly full color hardcovers illustrating an architect, a style, a trend. It was a lifelong interest, but he hasn't taken notice of them in years. It's time to thin the herd. It will take awhile, 3-4 at a time. But we have awhile.

I am working on his dresser now. I have unearthed no fewer than 3 identical brown Brooks Brothers glasses cases, each of which has the word "car" written in blue ballpoint on the inside-top of the clamshell. The hardest things to sort are the stacks of correspondence, tucked away in almost every drawer. They're there because family members returned them to Jeff over the past several years, thinking that remembrances would mean something to him. He glanced at a few. Mainly he cannot process them at all, though he might chuckle at a silly photograph. There's a letter from his mother, written on stationery with the letterhead of the small hardware store they owned in Hurlock, Maryland, listing Jeff's parents as proprietors. I don't know why I save it, but I do. I save a card from his Mom in which she wrote that she's especially proud of his unfailing honesty, kindness, and generosity of spirit. Almost everything else goes.

Now we'll take 3 large black plastic trash bags of clothing, and 2 shopping bags of books, to the collection bins down the road. "It's stuff we don't use anymore," I'll say. It's true, and Jeff won't question it.

An interesting place, no question.

I was about to talk about Disney World, starting from my earliest childhood trip at age 11. But what happened was, it read like a voiceover by Earl Hamner Jr. So I hit the delete key a whole bunch of times until I got back to the opening html tag. Then I started again.

I am of split feelings regarding the whole “Disney Experience.” I completely buy into the school of thought that thinks: “Wow...what a remarkably (mostly) neatly and tightly run ship this is! Totally engineered fun, but fun indeed!” But I also: 1) prefer “real” experiences and places and 2) am inclined to avoid crowds. As for the crowd thing--there are probably few places where crowds are steered with the pleasant sort of efficiency that Disney imagineers, and as for the “real” thing...well, there is no question that there is an inescapable layer of realness in contemplating the creation and operation of such places and experiences as exist on Disney property, not to mention the undeniable reality of watching other humans and their behaviors in the context of such a marvel of engineering.

At age eleven I was enchanted. At twenty I was supremely entertained. At thirty, in a rare opportunity to visit the Animal Kingdom with none for company but a pleasant and cooperative infant, I enjoyed the details in a way that you can’t always. Several years later, with a litter of middle-grade children along, I’d pre-planned our days such that opportunities for cranky exhaustion were limited, and fun--in the company of unjaded children--was at its best. This year I went for 3 days with 2 college students. We had fun, for certain; it kept me entertained, for certain--but this was the first time I actively thought: “I think I will have come here enough for one lifetime.”

Nonetheless, I was happy for the trip, and happy for a change from the lonely tranquility of my caregiving days. I will say however, that I cannot recommend jouncy rides to anyone else whose temperament disinclines her to relax her neck and shoulder muscles. And I have a critical suggestion: Disney? Mickey? Seriously. Offer free wifi in your deluxe resorts.

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Ennui (a)

I have the tv on for the moment--The Sound of Music to be precise--but I'm probably not going to watch it. Instead, I am wondering if I'm not at least a little nuts for having just planned a three night trip for the core purpose of spending an afternoon and dinner out with Gabe in Connecticut. If I drive straight with just a lunch and maybe bathroom break, it will take us about 8 hours. I can make that kind of a trip, as sole driver, but I don't like it. This is why I'll split it up, and spend 2 extra nights at inns en route...places tranquil enough to keep it easy, but interesting enough to be fun for me.

Anyway, this is what I've been telling myself I'd do once Gabe got situated. Stuff Jeff in the car and go places. It's better for both of us. For me, it makes the home-time more productive and more welcome. I stop feeling like a caregiving hermit in a cave. For Jeff...well, I don't know, but he seems perfectly content.

It's a glimmer of good fortune that given a disease that is known for exaggerating personality traits, Jeff has never been a worrier, or one to fret in unfamiliar surroundings. As long as I lock our hotel or inn room door securely, and stick a small table in front of it for extra assurance (middle of the night bathroom searches can cause the most disoriented fumblings,) we do rather well. I have a little wake up routine in which I say (for example) "We are in Norfolk, Virginia. We are on our way to Nags Head." Then we get breakfast. It seems to work for everyone, and by the time the first coffee kicks in, Jeff has at least a rudimentary grasp of the program.

I have a special file holder for trip planning. It holds five plastic folders, all different colors, and each one contains things like Amtrak barcodes for ticket retrieval, notes on likely places to eat, maps, and hotel information. Since summer I've regularly had 3-4 of the folders full and waiting. I like it that way.

On tv, Captain Von Trapp and the Baroness have just had a little conversation about his busy travel schedule. It's the sort of conversation that would have been edited out of any modern movie, but not in 1965. He says "Activity suggests a life filled with purpose."

Yep. But I had to wait until my children were old enough to govern themselves, since there are no conveniently located convents full of inappropriately impulsive novices, but the time is here. For now. As long as it works for Jeff. And when it doesn't...that's when we'll need Maria.

Eat, Bray, Grouse...

Another night at the Copper Beech Inn in Ivoryton (named after piano keys,) Connecticut, and we'll head home in the morning. Mark Twain's house in Hartford--let me tell you--was well worth a visit. Not quite as fun, perhaps, as Monticello, but with an animated tour guide and a readiness for stair-climbing, it's a well-spent ticket price.

I gave some serious thought to taking us to Eat, Pray, Love, at a small, but cutely provincial, local theater after dinner but was put off by the 2 hour 13 minute length of the film. Honestly, I just wasn't sure I had the stomach for 133 minutes of self-important Julia Roberts portraying self-indulgent Elizabeth Gilbert. I'd rather watch it at home where I can temporarily stop the playback while I run screaming into the kitchen, kick a few things, and maybe make some popcorn. While some strange and masochistic, but poorly understood, compulsion requires me to put the movie on my Netflix queue, I'm not sure I can appropriately discharge the Julia Roberts frustration anywhere but at home.

Instead, it is possible that I will eat another chocolate chip cookie, purchased this afternoon at the Bishop's Orchard Farm Market. Jeff has given up after 5 minutes of a History Channel program which appears to be about a family of oversized men who like to talk about big things made of metal. Jeff gives up on most t.v. rather quickly, which is a shame in a way, because many of his AD peers find t.v. to be entertaining in the face of a illness that robs them of much else to do. Truthfully, he would not have gotten much out of Julia/Elizabeth on a global traipse to become a deeper, richer, and more sexually fulfilled person-of-abject-perfection, but at least we would have been doing it together. Which seems to work for him. Me, I crave a conversational reciprocity which almost-but-not-quite caused me to join a cluster of fishermen at the bar in the Black Seal Pub in Essex, CT, where we ate too much for dinner tonight.

If you don't believe me, try it.

Today I clinically tested a phenomenon I've read about but not specifically discerned. Well, I mean, if you can stretch the definition of "clinical" to include a llama pen next to a farmers' market just off Connecticut Route 1.

It is, apparently, a feature of Benson's syndrome (the visual variant of Alzheimer's) to experience left hemi-neglect. Ok, ok...I like using these medical terms...it heightens my dork factor. Here's what it means: Due to relatively more severe damage to the left hemisphere of the brain, one might witness perception of things-to-the-right (or, in some cases, function of body parts on the right) to be more impaired.

Here's how I noticed: For some reason--today specifically--due to the winding nature of country roads in maritime Connecticut, I began to suspect that when I said "look at that gnarly barn on the left!" there was a slim chance Jeff would look and notice, but when I said "check out the star-spangle onion dome on the right!" the odds shrunk to zip. I tried testing by pointing out houses and such to one side or other, but in a moving car almost anything is apt to be missed, and the test was inconclusive.

THEN (in an otherwise fruitless hunt for a vineyard open for tastings on Monday--note: Connecticut stops on Mondays,) we pulled into Bishop's Orchard Farm Market (Guilford, CT) and bumbled into the proof I will now describe. In a large fenced enclosure, next to the market, lived 4 or 5 llamas, a couple of goats, and a sheep which resembled a goat. We approached a side, roughly 50 feet long, to have a look and see if we couldn't get spit at. (We couldn't.) About 5 feet from the side of the enclosure (on the inside,) stood a hay trough from which the animals could munch. It was double-sided, and situated--relative to the fence--at a 45 degree angle. (draw this: long fence, trough at 45°, angle opening to the right.) So, straight on, or standing to the right, you could see the road-facing side of the trough, but to see the backside, you had to move to the left.

As it happened, there was a small goat pigging up the backside of the trough by sitting in it. Yeah, he was just totally sitting in the trough, and I attempted to point him out to Jeff. No dice. Jeff couldn't seem him. We moved to the right of the trough, such that the trough was now on our left. "See the trough?" Yes. "See the llama eating hay out of the trough?" Yes. Now we moved along the fence so that the trough was on our right, and we could (ostensibly) have a view of the other side. "See the trough?" "You mean here?" said Jeff pointing at the fence. "You mean here?" said Jeff pointing at the small shed in the center of the enclosure. He could not, whatever I tried, look at the trough when it was on his right. Hence, he could not see the goat lounging in it. I tried several times. He couldn't. Case closed.

Next time we take the twain...

Before I have anything trenchant to report about last week's junket to Disney World, I need to debrief a tad from the watershed weekend I'm in the midst of.

Yesterday morning Gabe snoozed as I piloted the Soobie. 3 hours up the road in Moorestown, NJ, we stopped for lunch at a Panera and he inquired as to whether I knew the whereabouts of his wallet and book. Nope. A quick phone call later, and Becca was on her way to overnighting them from the home Post Office. If that was the worst of our organizational lapses, I'm feeling good.

I have a couple of brief comments to make about Moorestown, NJ. 1) It's in New Jersey. State motto: We don't make left turns and can think of no reason to allow you to do so either. Goofed? Turn right, then right, then right, then zigzag through a few residential areas...we'll get you where you're going. 2) I am curious, in a cautiously tentative way, about any town in which the first businesses you encounter post-exit ramp are The Truck and Turf Hotel (turquoise, 50s-style neon lettering,) and Jay's Elbow Room lounge. Oh, and here's another favorite NJ style trick: Erase all lane markings 100 yards before any toll plaza. That way you're sure to find yourself as far as you can be from the human-who-can-make-change lane, deciding between blowing the barricade in an "Easy Pass" lane, or scrounging for enough coins to make exactly a dollar in the "exact change" lane. We picked option two. Perhaps one of our pennies got trapped in a seam on its way into the big bucket, so I followed these actually-posted instructions--"If machine doesn't work, blow your horn and keep going." Not that my toot stood out from everyone else's. This is New Jersey, mind, where horn-blowing every fraction of a mile is pretty much de rigeur.

Jeff was placidly rocking on Helen's tranquil upstate New York front porch, plugged into an ipod she'd set to Jeff-pacification music. He seemed pleased but perplexed to see us, but caught on that we'd come to get him. He grasped the gist of our trip in a loose sense, in that he asked Gabe several times last night--"So which college do you like?" I slipped Gabe a quick verbal reminder to limit the bigness of the deal of this slight anachronism, and he replied, each time, "I've already picked a school. This is the trip where I move in."

From yesterday morning to move-in today, I've perceived Gabe's mood progressing from reluctance to leave his home and favorite cat, to tuning out, to an acceptance of this transition to independence. I can't quite call it enthusiasm, but as we got there I felt a hint of ownership of the experience emerging in his vibe.

I'll tell you one thing about the typical Thames Academy parent. They hover. I left Jeff on the front lawn of Gabe's big old Victorian home-for-the-year, as I helped him get his stuff in and sorted. Last in, first out I was. I don't think Gabe would have swapped for the parental pair organizing Michael's things to a fair-thee-well, or the other set who were hanging around to fetch more supplies and even take their son William out to dinner tomorrow night, after he'd gotten a taste of classes. Gabe's bed was made, his stuff was in drawers, he was ready for us to go. So we did. And as for the tissue which I'd wadded into my pocket this morning--I needed it as we walked away. But only a little.

Now Jeff and I are ensconced in a small inn down the road in the Connecticut woods, to veg, eat, recoup from driving, and tomorrow--visit Mark Twain's house in Hartford. Jeff likes that idea, but I have no doubt I'll be escorting him to and from the bathroom at least three times in the middle of tonight. As I did last night at Helen's. Which is half the reason why a bit of time to sit in a garden and post a blog update is a good move before I tackle another solo drive.

See Spot?

Dick and Jane have grown up.

After a while they realized that--while it was good for Spot to run, (run Spot, run!)--it was beginning to seem unneighborly to let him do his business in everyone's else's yard. So Mother got Spot a nifty retractable leash for walks, and he spent the rest of his outdoor time romping in a nice fenced backyard.

Eventually, Dick decided he'd rather go by Rick, and he and his partner Ed bought a house in Vermont. Rick is a landscape designer. Ed runs a bed & breakfast out of their extra house space, and tends their dog, Spot IV.

Jane is really busy. (Go Jane, go!) Even though her husband, Buster, was a bit of a bad move (See Buster leave...leave Buster, leave...,) Jane is doing well with their children (Dot, Horace, and Mikey,) and she's just sold a screenplay about a computer virus that interbreeds with swine flu causing all victims to look like Mister Softee.

As for Sally...after a stint in Amsterdam, where she learned, with time, that she enjoys meaningful work more than she likes existentialism, Sally came home and hit it off with Dick/Rick's best employee, Hector Hernandez-Ramirez. They forgot to get married yet, although they are thinking about it. They also like to invite the whole family over for home-made tortilla burritos. It's Grandma Ramirez's secret recipe. (Cook, Abuela cook!) The whole family is delighted by the newest addition--Pilar Sara Puff Smith-Hernandez-Ramirez. "Look!" says Father. "Look at baby Pilar's brown eyes!" "Look!" says Mother. "Look at baby Pilar's brown skin!" They can't help themselves. They are so excited they keep showing her to all the neighbors.

11

My mind is galumphing along at a speedy trot, which is an attitude I like in a mind now and then, as it reminds me that it works. The thoughts that splatter me along this particular mindscape are of quite a few flavors, but mostly they are not unpleasant. I can't complain.

A few days ago, Rachel mentioned that her favorite number has always been x. (No, not really x, but I'm using an algebraic substitution because it's her favorite number, not mine, and if it's to be shouted about, I'd better let her do it.) But, related or not to the fact that x is her favorite, she found 200x to be an especially agreeable year.

I will be forthcoming. My favorite is 11. It always has been. I don't think it had to do with the fact that I grew up in a house numbered 11 (later 611, when the county did some re-jigging of the mail system,) but I know I preferred it well before I selected 11 as my basketball jersey number, or zeroed in on high school lockers with 11 in the digit sequence. Our current house number is 111. It just happened. It was on the market when we were shopping for a house, and we liked it. Next year is 2011. Maybe it will be good. One thing that can be said about 2011 is that I will, like it or not, turn 50 at the end of it.

Long ago, when I was first married, I indulged in an astrological chart consultation with an astrologer who was a great favorite of my parents' next door neighbor. Her astrologer friend was in town for a visit, and my mother-in-law and I, both for the fun of it, signed on. One of the standout moment was when the astrologer-lady got all excited about how the "second half of my life" was going to be super-awesome, I'd become "more myself," and that I'm in some sense "aging backwards." Now I'm not sure how exactly my uniquely giraffe-splotchy face represents a reversal of aging, but let's not quibble. The point is, she seemed to think that 50 would be some kind of karmic blast-off point.

hmmm. All I know for sure is that I set myself a challenge this morning. Sometime, by within the confines of the year 2011, I will have whipped my house (#111) into marketable condition. I don't know what next. Either I will a) move, or b) achieve an unexpected peaceful and satisfactory resolve with the place. For now, I feel like Miss Havisham, languishing in her wedding clothes amidst the rubble of a dream that crashed and burned, and we really can't have that.

Somehow or other, we're going to have to grab that 11 by the little horizontal bits at the bottom, and vault up and over like one of those acrobat monkeys on elastic cord. But without the elastic cord, because that's just limiting. Maybe it's good my brother broke my little plastic monkey toy when I let him try it, back when I was around...I don't know...11. That monkey wanted off the squeezy-frame anyway.

Amtrakin'

As I start this bit, we're jerking slowly past some switchtracks in South Norwalk, Connecticut. At about this point the view-from-train will segue from a mix of rough and/or charming seaside towns to the graffiti, scrap metal, and industrial backyards of the NYC to Baltimore-Washington corridor.

I spent our hour-long wait in the New London train station reading Jeff all the informative posters describing the architectural work of Henry Hobson Richardson (whose last station, in 1888, was the very one in which we were standing.) Studying the founding fathers of the Arts & Crafts movement, and the purveyors of their aesthetic legacy has been a lifelong hobby of Jeff's, but now reading such informative exhibits for himself wouldn't work. He does, however, love to listen. And I enjoy reading interpretively, just in case any talent hunters from NPR may be hovering nearby. Not sure what the surrounding Amtrak passengers think.

Behind me on the train, a couple of older ladies are animatedly discussing the dementia-related incapacities of their various relatives. I could lean over the back of the seat and say "Hey! Me too! This guy right here!" But they'd probably think I was as nutty as the lady a few towns back who, finding herself below New London instead of Boston (where she meant to get off) suddenly went full-scale wacko, regaling our entire train car with a 10 minute, expletives-not-deleted monolog about how her life was now ruined and how "they" (the Amtrak people, I surmised) had ruined it, and how she was going to kill someone this afternoon. This incited a good deal of amused grinning and chuckling from Jeff, who is beyond grasping how you hardly want to be a lightning rod for the wrath of a psycho, if you can help it. Gabe and I and the rest of the car listened with poker mouths but raised eyebrows while a conductor gingerly prodded the imploding passenger toward the best position for ejecting her at the next stop.

I remind Gabe a couple times that he could read his student handbook, which is conveniently stowed in my tote bag. He prefers Forbidden Knowledge: Travel for now, and has just described the various means by which people have, successfully and un (in terms of survival,) attempted barrel rides over Niagara Falls.

Our trip has been a good one, as these things go. Gabe was corralled by an evidently more organizationally-minded kid to be one of a trio of roommates for a hexagonal tower room in the warren-like third floor of the Victorian in which they'll be living starting at the end of the month. One sleepwalks, Gabe sleeptalks...the other one--the organizer--will, with luck, sleep heavily. I am leaving the orientation program comfortable that--all the usual leaving-home adjustments notwithstanding--Gabe has a decent year in an agreeable environment ahead of him.

As for me, I am looking forward to a couple of opportunities to poke around maritime Connecticut when we return to move Gabe in, and again on Family Weekend. While waking in strange hotel rooms becomes more and more disorienting--and therefore grump-inducing--we can usually wash the worst of the cobwebs away with an orange juice and coffee.

off we go...

Let your internet connection break down for a couple of odd days, and you'll find out whether you've developed a dependency or not. I had no question about myself, but I was interested (though not completely surprised) when, two days into the dark time when Comcast failed us, all 3 girls bundled up their laptops and trundled off to Panera to re-establish all required connections.

This, as I understand it, is what they're up to as I type. I am jiggling along the northbound track of the Washington D.C. to Boston corridor, en route to Gabe's college (phase 1...The Gap Year) orientation.

Here is a snapshot of our conversation in the car, pre-Amtrak station: Gabe: ...but the real reason "Darksiders" (or whatever it's called) sucks is because it's a button-masher (or whatever the term was) and the situations are implausible...this tirade runs a bit long, interjected with me saying things like "Are you wearing your retainers?" (yes.) "Did you pack pants?" (yes.) "Did you bring your i.d.?" (oops.)

At the station I text Olivia, then Becca, then Olivia. Finally they both, upon request, text message me a fuzzy, Samsung phone photo of Gabe's driver's license. It'll have to do. Fortunately, and as usual, the train conductor does not request any of our i.d.s. (Jeff's is safely stowed next to mine in my wallet. His wallet likes to get mislaid between trousers.)

I was just reading, yesterday on the elliptical, about how--even in 2005--Japan was so internet connected that the writer, while zooming south from Tokyo on the bullet train, had easy access via his laptop at 150 mph. Amtrak makes a stab at it, but it's a weak, pathetic stab. Occasionally my Toshiba claims that there's a detectable network..."Scott," or "gwt13b," or "trackUedu"...but the "Amtrak Acela" signal disappeared 50 yards out of the station and didn't work there, at that. Surely the Hilton Garden Inn, where we'll lodge tonight, will perform better than that.

I tucked the last oddments in the wheelie-case this morning with a realization that bemused me a bit. Here I was, stuff packed, papers in order, hotel, train, and rental car booked, and I had no sense of anticipation--no glint of wheee, a trip! It was just what I was doing today. Like, yesterday I took the girls for some garment necessities. Today I herded Gabe and Jeff out the door and onto the train.

It's the lack of partner, or companion. A compatriot is an energizing factor--someone who, by being aware along with you, validates and codifies the experience and any quirky observations and discoveries you may make. Without a doubt, this is much of what drives me to write it down. "Look! This happened! I was somewhere!"

Jeff gazes about, taking in little, unable to see or grasp anything I point out. He will remember essentially nothing. Gabe is on the verge of waking up to notice the new ways in which he--as a fledgling adult--must absorb and interact with his new surroundings and encounters. He will notice whatever piques his esoteric interests, and--on that level--he and I can talk. But not right now. He's reading The Hunger Games, and Jeff and I are a row back, polishing off o.j. and veggie sushi from The Fresh Market.

Front Porch Cafe to the rescue...

One of the reasons I could tell that last night's sleep disruptions were excessive is that, the third time, I didn't snap awake until there was light pouring in from the hallway, one of my shoes had found its way onto the dresser top, and the entire 3-layer bedcover ensemble had been twisted into a bow-tie and replaced sideways. So when I finally turned the bedside lamp on, again, at 3:36 a.m., and guided Jeff to the bathroom, my instructions were at best curt.

Another reason I could tell is that the literary character I most resembled in the morning--at least until a cinnamon bun and a coffee on the way to the grocery store kicked in--was Gollum, in one of his less obsequious moments.

Conveniently, our room at the Nags Head Annex--that is, the rental house where the bulk of our extended family stays during beach week--is equipped with a bathroom, and we can stumble around in the wee hours in various states of abject disorientation without too much bothering anyone else. And, as for the morning aftermath, I'm not bad at glowering quietly to myself until I begin to feel human again. This is good, since Jeff certainly cannot be held accountable for his state of mind any more than my 3 year old nephew (who squeals a good deal more.)

As I recall, last year about this time, Jeff asked me if I was hoping to divorce him. Sometimes that's the sort of thing that's stewing in his brain which is, for the most part, disconnected from the influence of the prevailing moods of me or anyone else in the house. About all I can say to that is "Sorry buddy, no such luck," and try to maintain whatever gravity of delivery the situation seems to call for.

This week, his thinking has not plumbed such dark depths, and he rode along with me to the Harris Teeter grocery store, smiling placidly and benignly, with no notion that my pinched brow existed, let alone was the result of sleep deprivation caused by his funky and erratic biorhythms.

Even after years of Alzheimer's it can sometimes be hard to make yourself accept that--to the AD person--kindness is all in the overt actions and the facial expressions. Cranky is as Cranky does, and if Cranky behaves tolerably, and smiles--even if it's a facade--that works for the AD guy.

Tonight I'm cooking--locally caught tilefish and not so locally caught tofu, marinated in teriyaki--and perhaps with a smidgen of an afternoon nap, I will not burn it.

Beach house half-life

The transitory nature of human dwellings is nowhere more evident than along the barrier islands of the U.S. East Coast. What happens to these houses is that they fall in the ocean. This is all well and good if your lot is 3 houses back and you're waiting for a crack at waterfront property because--bide your time--you'll get it. But it's also a bit like becoming Head Chancellor to Henry VIII--you've maximized your shot at power and prestige, but it's only a matter of time before the next nor'easter takes your head off.

It is fortunate that our (and by "our" I mean my mom's) beach house sits on a lot which runs from Old Oregon Inlet Road to the Atlantic Ocean...however far up it may be lapping at the time. Had she and Dad not had it moved back several years ago, it would have been among the casualties of the tide by now. As it is we're a tolerably comfortable beach-front. But it is equally common to have a short line of cottages behind you, with each front-runner falling off one at a time, like bags of M&M candies in a push-button vending machine.

Generally, before each house disappears, it becomes something of a gawkable attraction--a derelict beyond rentability--its septic tank exposed, decks and staircases dangling off, and windows broken. I don't know whether, by this time, any insurance claim could be made, but there seems to be little incentive for the owners to pay haulers to take the carcass away. Most likely it becomes a municipal problem if the ocean gods don't step in with some major flushing action.

We hit the jammed and melting road...

With the heat index spiking, I set off with Jeff to accomplish what should be a four hour drive in roughly 6.5 hours. The Soobie's air-conditioning system took a noble stab at keeping us from experiencing (Raiders of the Lost) Ark of the Covenant face-melting special effects, and we got to Norfolk, Virginia in time to join my mom for an excellent Indian Restaurant dinner. Let me take a moment to thank the iPhone app: Yelp, and all the contributors for pointing me--once again--in the right direction, dining-wise.

Most of the rest of the crew will join us in Nags Head--the beach!--tomorrow, after a lengthier one-day drive. By then we will have obtained some of the basic gustatory necessities, and a house full of young-adults will not need to stage a full scale hunger-unfueled uprising.

In such heat (106°F on the heat-radiating macadam of the Holiday Inn parking lot, according to my Mom's car thermometer,) my head is given to a bit of lightness, and Jeff's visuo-spatial challenges take a leap from impediment to road block. Cutting up of his mango-ginger chicken prior to handing him the proper utensil was of absolute necessity tonight. He is to bed early, as I will also be soon. And tomorrow we'll join Mom for a breakfast of impressively weak coffee and a toasted bagel or so downstairs.

Can we get from Norfolk to the farmer's market to good old Old Oregon Inlet Road in South Nags Head without a leash? Stay tuned...

pre-beach

It is the week before the week we go to Nags Head. The week in which I scribble lists on a handy legal pad, reminding me that I can't plan anything without lists on a legal pad. This is good.

This week I can take a step back from my story, and throttle down a bit from my usual mind-shredding pace of 5 words a day, and focus instead on a perfectly good reason to accomplish nothing.

Finally, enough responsibities--a cat scheduled for dental work, social obligations with parents and friends, children arriving from hither and requiring some assistance to go yon--are coalescing in sufficient density to leave me feeling, at the end of the week, as if I've earned a vacation. Meanwhile, the ants are stepping up their game, and finding new ways to tunnel through the foundation such that targeted strikes are almost pointless, and they remind me--once again--that I will lose the evolutionary battle, and they will win.

But off I go to try anyway. More news from the front. Or the beach.

Full of beans

Old Stewball was a racehoooorrrrse.... I am belting, which is not always something you want to be around. And I wish he were miiiiiine...

Jeff gives me an odd look. “Doo-Ball? Whose horse is this?”

”Stewball,” I say.

”Ok, Too-Ball?” he says. He is clearly trying to make sense of whatever it is I’m trying to communicate.

”No, STEW-ball,” I say. “Stewball. It’s a Peter, Paul, and Mary song.”

”Paul and Mary,” says Jeff. “What did the horse do?”

”He won the race,” I say. “And that’s all, as far as I know.”

”Huh...” says Jeff. “I don’t remember that song. Well, I learned something new today.”

Then I stop singing about Stewball.

Instead, I finally remember to look up the species of a tree which grows in large numbers along our usual beach-circuit dog walk. I have lived here for 24 years and have never remembered to look up that tree’s identity, except while passing by. And at those moments I have no internet connection. 5 different online flow charts...well, not charts, because you click. I guess they’re flow programs...but anyway, 5 take me to dead ends. One gets it bang on. (I don’t know what’s wrong with the others.) It’s a Northern Catalpa, recognizable by its very large heart-shaped leaves, and its lengthy bean pods. It is sometimes called an “Indian Bean Tree,” and usually they’re found in Ohio or the Mississippi River Valley. Someone apparently brought them here for ornamental purposes, and they appear to like it very much.

This afternoon, the weather was far too fine to take a nap on the couch, so that’s exactly what I did. Which means I’ll be up past Jeff’s bedtime, watching The Tudors if I can get a crack at the tv...or possibly whatever Olivia and her bf Brian select, provided it’s not a rerun of last night’s “Hooters Girls” pageant. Although Olivia and I did have somewhat of an interesting time making a critical analysis of real vs. not-real, anatomically speaking.

touch that dial...it's ok

I'm going all googly-eyed over transmissions from a daughter on a road-trip across the southwest. Friends on a road-trip across the northwest. A cousin's family on a sea-way trip to Bermuda. And I'm thinking: I've gotta take a road-trip or DIE!

There was a time when the summer slow-down was a good thing...no lunches to pack every morning, no bed times to enforce each night, a break from the daily treadmill of days bracketed by school and work schedules. But now that all those kids are--more or less--free agents, I'm having a way different emotional response to the poky dog-days of July.

Oh, for sure, I am bummed at karma. I did the time and didn't get the expected pay-off. Now I am a big babysitter. Well, I'm no bigger than normal, but the baby's on the large side.

I want to work on my book. No doubt, it's a bit of a silly exercise, but it keeps me sane and stable, probably much in the same way that drilling a hole provides satisfaction to a carpenter bee. And that, I say, is what I want to do! (Not the hole-drilling...the bees have that one covered, thanks.)

Trouble is, it's very hard to get to that immersion space in my head--that spot where I can live, for moments at least, in the invented world of my invented characters...and that's because I can't disengage. Most of the time I'm being vaguely gazed at. Fuzzy signals are emanating from what remains of the brain occupying the chair just 12 feet that-a-way. Sometimes he's looking at me quizzically, smiling blankly. Sometimes he's wandering vaguely about, his belt through 2/3 of its loops and only half-buckled. Or examining a mismatched pair of shoes, as if unfocused scrutiny will cause them to make sense. Sometimes drowsy, sometimes bewildered, sometimes unquestionably satisfied with a life of sitting in an Arts&Crafts armchair placidly surveying nothing.

So what does one do with that? Trouble also is, I guess, that having my receiver tuned to that station since 1983 has made it danged hard to ignore even the fritzy bits of static still transmitted. While there's a quality about them I recognize, I can't patch them into anything more meaningful than "zzzrbtxxx....still here...zzzziiiixxx...here....ccccchhhhhhxx...still..." So I'm like a desperate SETI geek in my garage outpost, distracted by the crackles and whistles from my radio, but utterly unable, by conscience or nature, to turn it off.

A road trip will clear the mind. A road trip will present its own ephemeral purposes and meanings, and I will report from the field. Something I can sink my observational teeth into. Here, I just hear xzzchzzzsqueeeeeee...

A Trip to IKEA

Tonight I will be trying out #4 in a series of pillows purchased with the hope that I won't wake up with tense neck muscles and a headache. The ergonomic "memory foam" ones seem snazzy enough when I test them out but, over the course of a night, are simply not squishy enough. Today I bought a "Gosa Hassel," which, as far as I can figure, means "Thanks chump" in Swedish, and we'll see how that goes. I would blame these sleep/muscle/tension problems on stress-in-general, but since I can do little to nothing about that, it's convenient to scapegoat the pillows.

The ostensible purpose of the trip was round #1 of collecting college needs for Gabe. He easily zeroed in on the proper towels--orange. (Orange is, you see, the most awesome of colors.) And selected two handle-free mugs--one white, one black. His desk lamp has a conical shade, giving it the appearance of a small robotic coolie, and I tossed in a few things of my own choosing--hangers, the most expendable of flatware, and a batch of laundry baskets which will be as close as Gabe gets to organization. Once we outfit him with some sneakers which are not separating upper to sole, and his Toshiba arrives, he'll be almost as ready as he needs to be.

Olivia came along. No surprise. It almost always pays to accompany me on a shopping expedition where the credit card is destined to come out anyway, and she located, in short order, a portable storage unit which would save her stealing her sister's. The sister who, according to unconfirmed reports, has accepted a teaching assignment in Washington, D.C.

D.C. is not ridiculously far from here. Neither is it a rational commuting range (though many do endure just such a commute for years on end.) More likely, when said sister returns from her cross-country odyssey to regions of dead cellular zones...(or at least dead as far as my phone is concerned. She apparently communicates with the other sister who, thus far, has not been implicated in this entry)...ahem, when she returns, it is entirely possible that another trip to IKEA will be in order. Or perhaps preferably, we can cobble together a roomful of supplies from what remains in the basement. I have extra pillows.

For it's no, nay, never...?

We visited Brigid the Nurse Practitioner, at the Memory Disorders Clinic at Georgetown University Hospital last week. Seems we've about stumbled to the end of our tour of duty in the Merck vaccine trial. I know two new things: Everyone in the trial received vaccine--there were no placebos, and although nobody in Phase 2 (our phase) achieved immune response, the results are not yet available from Phase 3, which got a bigger dose. Not that it's of any consequence to us even if Phase 3 suddenly mounts an immune response that would make any rebel alliance proud. We (as in Jeff) are ineligible for the "open-label" phase (in which all participants may receive the effective-level dose) because of microbleeds, as revealed by the MRI.

Ho hum. It would greatly surprise me if, even with immune systems everywhere locked and loaded, any reversal or containment of the Alzheimer's process were realized. For reasons that amount to little more than whimsical hunches, this is not the avenue where I anticipate advances in the cause. Don't ask me where I do anticipate advances, because then I'd have to pretend to have a grasp of biochemistry, and I most certainly do not. But, from the 2 new things I learned, there is one take-home point: Every time I tell the Red Cross people that Jeff can't donate blood because he was the recipient of an experimental vaccine, I am not merely blowing smoke.

Brigid did point me in the direction of a researcher at NIMH who is interested in the more unusual variants of Alzheimer's, of which Jeff's version appears to be one. I discern from the website that they are conducting shorter term studies, mostly involving PET scans. Part of me says, "Oh why not, what else do we have to do?" And the other part--the more phlegmatic twin--says, "Of what possible efficacy could it be to stick Jeff in a hour or so-long scanner several more times?" (Apart from the general contribution to research which, truth be told, was really the only driving factor the first time around.)

But now, even considerably less than 3 years ago when we started the Merck trial, he has so little personal interest in or grasp of the whys, wheres, and hows of these clinical trial processes that, frankly, it would only be of interest to me. Jeff would just be going along, as he usually does, wherever I go, gently accepting the needlesticks and cognitive hoop-jumping, while enjoying the simple perks of food, coffee, and the same 4 iPod playlists over and over on the way to and from D.C. (It might be time for me to snag some new tunes.) So, I'm inclined to consider his days as a research monkey over. I'm not 100% sure of that, but it's a decided inclination.

This has been a curious year of somewhat inscrutable disease progression. Progression has undoubtedly occurred. Getting in the car presents new levels of challenges as Jeff must be guided to the proper car, the proper door, and the proper car appendage on which to pull. (the door handle, not the side view mirror.) Getting dressed has gone from semi-reliable, to a ritual where--at shower time--I lay the jeans on the bed, spread out so it's clear they're jeans. I place the briefs on top of the jeans, to insure they are approached first. I select a clean shirt and set it next to the jeans, and just south of Jeff's wallet, belt, and hanky. I can still expect him to turn up needing help with the belt. The dirty clothes I must grab as they drop, or else they'll likely be re-worn for days, jammed into mystery drawers, or handled in such a way as to cause the handful of mixed nuts and dog treats that have been stuffed in the front pocket to scatter all over the bedroom rug.

The inscrutable aspect is that I still don't see this beginning to look like the inexorable march toward the time when I may need to, justifiably, consider seeking caregiving help. Realistically, it cannot be other than that very inexorable march, but I'm not yet seeing the landmarks that tell me I'm getting close. I still have this weird sense that this is how it will be forever. "This" being a life condition wherein I'm the spouse-parent to an unusually compliant toddler, who happens to be in his 60s.

Spell "ragspwaggler," or else.

Do you ever sit somewhere that's not your usual perch and notice how--from that vantage point--there are some rather serious lapses in the thoroughness with which you vacuum up dust and animal fur? Of course you do, unless you're quite meticulous, or someone else who cleans your house is.

Mostly, I'm not ready to go to bed. It's 10 pm, but I did not sleep wonderfully last night (something about the dog voofing at the bedroom door, and me--not quite with it--interpreting that to mean "I have to go outside, or else." Since "or else" has not happened in over 10 years, I needn't have worried...but I was half-asleep, until I ended up having to chase her around the back yard at 1:30 am, so she'd come inside and I could go back to sleep.) The result was that I took 2 short naps today, and am therefore not ready for bed.

Last night I was in a spelling bee. The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, to be specific. That was the show we saw last night at the Annapolis Summer Garden Theater. Somehow I ended up as one of 3 audience participants--last one standing, in fact--eliminated precisely where they intended me to be eliminated, by a word that may not be a word at all, but sounded something like this: "ragspwaggler." If you can identify a word similar to this, please do let me know. Until then I was doing fine with "jihad," "cow," and "apoop." I know I had to be stumped at that point anyway, by hook or crook, since the actor in the boy scout costume, who'd been whispering me my cues, got booted (by dint of script) just one song and dance before, and I'd have been left high and dry without a killer word to trip over.

Jeff enjoyed seeing me "perform," and had 3 of his kids nearby to keep him oriented in the meantime. This morning Becca asked him if he'd liked seeing me in the play. He smiled blankly. Sometimes you can't tell if all has been lost, or if the question just didn't make it through the language processing filter intact.

Today I found myself having to speculate on the investment value of retaining certain life insurance policies, initiated by the hardware store a number of years ago, when Jeff was still insurable. In order to do this, you take out your Hewlett-Packard 12-C financial calculator, and input the monthly premium, an interest rate you think you could reasonably expect investing elsewhere, and the number of years of such an investment (which is equal, in this calculation, to the number of years you suppose the insured will live). It is a task that is both bizarre and impossible, because you're deciding how to gamble based on someone's longevity and, particularly with Alzheimer's and its variants, you can't possibly guess anyway. As it turns out, the policy under consideration falls under the joint purview of my brother-in-law and me, and will be something we need to hash out after I speak to the agent on Tuesday morning.

Perhaps by then I will have written 2 more paragraphs in my silly book. I am glad to be back in that saddle, though it seems to have put the squeeze on Japanese study. I am sure though, that ragspwaggler is not a Japanese word.

Pleasant Valley Sunday? (except we're not in a valley.)

The weather gadget on my Tosh mini is telling me it's 93º F outside at 4:30 in the afternoon. I don't know about that. It feels rather hotter, and our walk was truncated by mutual agreement between me and the dog. Jeff usually just goes with what we think.

Our neighbor, Jim, was out, fully drenched in the sweat of labor, and we exchanged a bit of chatter. Jim has always liked Jeff a great deal (as most people do,) and focused the banter on Jeff as Fredfred and I attempted to hold a patch of shade.

Quirky little phenomenon, synchronicity. I actually initiated the walk, despite the heat, in an effort to budge myself from the doldrums of what has been--for me--a fairly un-busy week or so. I know, it sounds like a good thing--an un-busy week--and in a way it undoubtedly is. But I'm certain, now that I stop and think about it, that I've acquired some new habits and techniques in the face of life with Alzheimer's. And one is to get up and go, as a means of distraction.

Sometimes I say that I'm trying to distract Jeff, who by default will otherwise divide his time between sitting in a kitchen armchair, gazing placidly about the room or dozing, taking a genuine nap, or standing in the driveway, watching the world--such as it is around here--go by. But I am, to be honest, probably more interested in distracting myself from several inescapable realities--the tedium of babysitting, hunger for actual conversation, and the ever-present queasy guilt I still feel that I can't single-handedly fake a long-gone relationship which has not existed for years, and would be fake, even if I faked it.

But as for synchronicity, neighbor Jim, and the banter: I started our walk thinking I've got to get out of here...just stick Jeff in the car and take a short, overnight trip somewhere. More distraction, better distraction. Leave the girls to handle Gabe and the pets. Then we passed Jim, and exactly that topic--brief getaways--was on his mind too. He said that he and his wife, feeling a bit stir-crazy, just took a long weekend in historic Williamsburg, and it was great because they could: Talk. Reconnect. Discuss the future. Be together.

Well, Fredfred and I stood tight on our patch of shade while Jeff grinned at Jim, happy to see his friend, but processing virtually nothing of what Jim was saying. While I was thinking exactly, Jim. That's exactly what getaways used to be about, before they came to be about a change of pace for my brain, and distraction from the truth that I can do absolutely nothing for Jeff's brain, other than keep him content with nice food and pleasant scenery.

Well, I have corn to shuck--another distraction, and it's 5:00 pm--time for Jeff to have a glass of chardonnay. He finds it quite pleasant.

Don't touch that dial! Or, well, I'll do it.

I'm reading an article in AARP magazine about the "culture of distraction," and how adults over 50 (of which I am not yet one...quite) are, for various reasons, the most susceptible to the cacaphony of competing stimuli.

Exactly while reading the article, I happened to be distracted by a full-page advertisement for easy to use "boomer friendly" cell phones and cell phone contracts. This was, after all, AARP magazine. (which, truth be told, is one of the few magazines I'd bother with. Turns out it's often relevant and interesting.)

I have often, over the past several years, given thought to obtaining the simplest of cell phones for Jeff--one with little more in the way of buttons than a standard touch tone phone. (I must interject, though--there really isn't such thing as a standard touch tone phone anymore. The last couple of cordless phone selections I've made have been with the express purpose of avoiding excess buttons. Not an easy task nowadays.)

Then, looking at the advertisement displaying phones of enticing simplicity, I realized Jeff could not use even these. Then it occurred to me: he has not, as far as I can recall, even picked up a telephone and made a call in months. No question it was getting difficult. In the last 2-3 years when he did wish to make a call, 9 times out of 10 I'd end up dialing for him as hitting 10 numbers + a dial key in sequence was proving to be too much.

Well, there's not much point in testing, but I suspect that--for Jeff--placing a phone call has fallen off the edge of the map, capability-wise. Nor has he swept the porch in some time. I think he could though, and maybe I should ask him to, once in a while.

Well, back to my article. (Nothing, it seems, gets a solid 10 minutes of attention from me. I'm not even sure I can apply such luxurious amounts of time anymore.) The article is called "May I Have My Attention Please?" It speaks of scattered focus in a zany world--a life ambiance I know well. Even a boomer friendly phone with big, raised buttons isn't going to add a snippet of calm to that.

He ain't heavy...

...nor is he exactly a lightweight at 160 lbs, but raising the kid has been a bit of a long road, with many a winding turn. Gabe never much wanted to bother with driving. Still, he gamely sat through driver's ed in the Fall of '08, and completed 2 out of 3 two-hour on-road sessions with the driving instructor. I was advised however, after session 2, that Gabe needed a hefty measure of more road experience before we should bother scheduling #3, and therein lay the problem. Road experience would require me and Gabe in a car at the same time, but opposite to our usual configuration. There was, in other words, no one around to sit shot-gun with him except me, and this simply proved to be a non-compatible way to place the two of us on the gameboard.

So I dropped it. Gabe had no itch to drive, and I had no itch to push a cantankerous (in that setting) 16 year old into situations he was not ready for. But, as his senior year of high school, '09/'10, pressed on I realized that mentoring a new driver was not a task I wished to postpone for future enjoyment, and that the kid needed a serviceable photo i.d., and that we might as well buckle up and git 'er done.

So, at Christmas break '09, I badgered him to once again do the online practice tests so that he could (and did) once again pass the multiple choice computer test needed to replace his now-expired learner's permit. As Spring rolled in, I got back in touch with the driving school (who do retain their records that long...Gabe is hardly unprecedented in drawing out the process,) and hired Rich, the placid-like-a-cow road instructor (as opposed to the other guy, whose name I've forgotten,) to take the kid on-road for an extra 10 hours.

I failed to mention the vision part. Amblyopia as a little child has left Gabe with a right eye which plays left field to his left eye's first baseman, but the right eye's acuity is not improved with glasses. It's a brain thing. And in obtaining his first learner's permit, we played a lengthy game of telephone/fax/and pass-the-buck-to-the-supervisor before the optometrist had filled out the proper paperwork to the MVA's satisfaction. There is, you see, no button to push on their monitors that says "one eye crappy/glasses not required." Hence, I made extra sure, before we went for permit #2, that he'd had a fresh eye exam and the proper paper was in hand.

So, it was at the end of this process--a rather organizationally-intensive one on my part--that we set off this morning for his official on-road driver's licensing test. On-road is a misnomer. It's more of an on-course test, where you cover a total of roughly 100 yards, distance-wise, but must pretend you're parallel parking between actual cars (rather than orange cones,) look over your shoulder to ensure that another vehicle has not magically materialized onto the closed course in your way, and use your turn signals for all you're worth.

I'm sure it did not hurt that Gabe's appearance of maturity in years, and unruffled nature gave a sense of greater experience than he in fact possesses, but I won't argue. He passed, and my decidedly not-unruffled innards heaved a great sigh of job well done. Even though we had to sit around the MVA for 2 hours (yes, really, 2 hours) waiting for number G75 to be called so he could sign the little screen, get the glamour shot in front of the blue towel, and snag the license.

Meanwhile, we concocted many ideas for flash-mobs which might make any time spent on the MVA's metallic benches more entertaining. Bingo cards for instance. So, as the synthesized female voice calls "A 25, F 213, I 9," (every number, in other words, except G75,) your planted people could pop up occasionally and yell "BINGO!" Or, how about a sudden onslaught of balloons and confetti as you congratulate some random person for being "the 10th customer we've served this year!" and present him with a giant check for $10 and five cents.

Or perhaps we'll leave these ideas for Gabe's future creative writing efforts. Next year. At college. Where he won't have a car anyway.

Pass the cheese.

Clarence the cross-eyed muse and I...we're working it out.

I found out something interesting--half-finished books can be like cheese. Leave them lying around long enough and they may just acquire a character you weren't expecting. This is better in the case of the book than it is in the case of the cheese, not that I'd recommend either on a canapé tray. But a little smell, a few streaks of je ne sais quoi which you hardly knew you were inoculating the manuscript with when you eked out the words, can cause it to come out of that dusty stack of stuff-you'll-get-to-eventually with a patina you're certain you didn't beat into it. But you did. It's just that in the trudging...during the times of painstaking doldrums, when you could cough up little more than a sentence or two a week...you couldn't see it. The character of the characters, in their tedious squeezed-out familiarity, was invisible to you.

So you toss it aside, to gather dust with the map of Ohio, your kid's report card, and a book called Making Sense of Japanese. Then, when you pick it up again 3 months later, just to see if you really need to start all over again from scratch, you discover that the characters have, in fact, improved with age, total absence of oaken barrels notwithstanding.

I suspect that Clarence knows that will happen.

Bad stardust! Bad! Dang, now I scared it.

I am only elaborating on this because it is something that I otherwise never discuss, and I’d like to give it some air, although I doubt it will help much. Here is what I don’t like about concerts: It is not me making the music. I might love the music, absolutely, but it is intensely unsatisfactory that I am not a part of it. Being a passive observer is horribly inadequate.

Take that and multiply 20 or 30x, and that’s how I feel every time I read fiction I love. I might love the story, but I hate that I didn’t create it. And I’m intensely jealous of the person who did. The pseudo-historic, but mostly fictitious, character whom I relate to the most on this subject is Salieri. Enraged that a little sh*t like Mozart was gifted with the talent that he himself craved, he pretty much went kookoo. Well, I don’t think I’m in danger of either going nuts or poisoning Amadeus, but I hope I’ve conveyed the point. I am angry to feel a calling to a task (creating enjoyable things for people to read,) while being denied the requisite talent or inspiration. I am beyond angry. I am, like Salieri, enraged.

Notice I’m using words like “calling” and “denied” which suggest that something in the cosmos is in the business of orchestrating, or speaking to us in some way. However, to suggest that the whatever-it-is would both call and deny is to either conjure a ridiculously puckish force, or else to tie a silly knot of primitive thinking, and not simply accept that we are what we are, the universe is what it is, and it’s not anyone or anything’s fault. Because if something were in any way responsible, I would also ask it why it would present me with such a conundrum (urge to build/no toolbox,) while simultaneously depriving me of the one human who used to be capable of breathing sense into me when I went wacko.

I have mentioned Edison, and his 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration. Exactly why, you see, I have gone to the trouble of writing 3.5 books. Because what do you do with a situation? Well, you do what you can with it. So, if you can bring the 99% to the table, you bring it, trusting and/or hoping that the 1% will show up too. J.K.Rowling has said that Harry Potter, the concept and character, sprang fully formed into her brain as she was riding a train. I don’t know where Suzanne Collins, author of The Hunger Games, which I’m currently reading, fishes for ideas. I’ve never found a fishing hole, and nothing useful has ever sprung fully, or even partially, formed into my brain, so this is how I’ve concocted fiction: It is absolute barrel scraping. I begin to scratch random thoughts--names, notions, places, quirks--into a working notebook. I continue to do so, until I can begin to link them together by means of more scrapings, or a bit of ribbon, or a wad of chewing gum. Slowly, and with the desperation you feel when pinching the last blip of toothpaste out of the tube, (you know--the point where you actually jam the toothbrush bristles into the tube opening,) I patch something together. And sometimes, I actually sort of end up liking the result. But frankly, I’m pretty sure that 1% has never shown up, and I believe I have presented my work to the world sufficiently that--if it were there, that 1%--someone would have noticed it by now. But it’s not there. Because the 1% is one of those things that you may not be able to describe, but you know it when you see it.

So who gets it, inspiration? Where does it come from, why does it land where it does? I don’t have an answer, so I’m calling it stardust. And there’s really, really no point in being angry at stardust.

with a p.s to Zoto, who is one of the few people reading this! At your M.A.T. graduation, the speaker concluded by saying, "now go out, and be useful!" And that was both wrenching, but so right--because you guys have a chance to do that, and will. Once I said to your dad that I supposed I brought little to the world but a decent and interesting set of genes to pass along so that I could have useful children. He told me that thinking of myself as just a gene pool was a cop out. Maybe I was right. Maybe he was right. I still don't know. But maybe you can harbor and pass along stardust--like one of those skip-a-generation phenotypes. Not entirely bad.

Maybe stardust tea?

I am planning, and expecting (based on a quantitative analysis of the vagaries of mood and emotion,) to be in a much better mood tomorrow.

Gabe noticed as I was tossing some ravioli in a pot for him. ”You seem mad,” he said. ”Yes,” I allowed, ”I am mad. But not at any people. Just mad.”

Yesterday, I was trying to study Genki, my Japanese book. It’s different when you don’t have a class to go to, and I had one of those flash moments--I am doing this for no reason, and that doesn’t work for me. This is also why I do not write the book I’d been working on--there is no reason.

It would seem, based on a study of myself, that humans are better off when they have motivation to do what they do. So if, for example, you would enjoy studying Japanese, you will engage in the pursuit with greater vim if you expect to be airdropped into Osaka with a napsack and an apple. Likewise, if you would enjoy writing stories, you will feel a greater yen to do so if there are other humans saying ”Your work pleases me! Please do more.” Short of this kind of feedback, or the expectation of being airdropped--or at least something analogous--I cannot think what motivates people to do what they do. And that seems to be what is making me mad today.

Yes, see...the cosmos didn't give me a function, and I'm pissed. I know. I know I have a neurodegenerating spouse who needs me, and I'm totally on it. No worries. But would that be enough for you? It's not enough for me. I was enjoying the delusion that I could--while taking care of my spouse, which is clearly in many ways a downer--take refuge and comfort in being someone who writes something that people want to read. But that would require what Tia Dalma in Pirates of the Caribbean calls (in a weird Creole twang) a "touch of destiny," and I have long since had to concede that--apart from a certain population of trendily named 80s babies--there is no one named Destiny.

Which leaves me, as far as I can tell, to invent my own sense of purpose, and there again, I am on a bit of a lookout for Thomas Edison's 1%. (You know--genius is 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration?) The 99%, I can offer in spades. The 1% is like fleeting specks of stardust settling randomly but sparsely on the inhabitants of Earth. Chances are it will miss you.

So, make tea?