I was off at 6:50 am and forgot my phone that speaks for me.
The flight was stunning in the hot morning air. I had the front seat.
At the Canada Line terminal there was no pay phone. I went to a transit supervisor for help, and bless that man — he let me use his phone to grunt to Bruce. One grunt: Yes. Two grunts: No.
When I entered the station, a cop called me over and demanded ID. I grunted and handed her my driver’s license. Her mood switched instantly to kindness when she realized I could not speak. She apologized telling me I had great skin and did not look like a senior, so she’d questioned my having a yellow fare card.
It freaked me out. By the time I got to Bruce I was locking up but over breakfast with my kind and understanding friend, my speech got better.
Then I did an errand, and after that, to Dr. S. It was really tough to communicate with her, but boy it felt good to be there. I’m going back on a regular basis again and I’m trying some new drugs.
I was terribly impressed with her, as usual. This time because of how she raised the subject of going back for more sessions and taking drugs. She is exceptionally good at raising the subject without prejudice and putting the decision firmly in my hands.
Shitland. I live in shitland again.
This morning at 3:50 I awoke to the sound of puppy paw prints racing back into my bedroom. I knew what that meant. I could smell it. This morning was the second morning in a row. Poor Sheba has diarrhea again. Thank God it’s hot out; I could open all the doors and turn on the fans to get the air in here smelling fresh. Ah … cabin life.
Late in the afternoon yesterday there was a knock at the door. It was a woman I didn’t recognize at first. It was Connie, a woman with whom I worked decades ago. And she was with a friend who had a dog so we — and Sheba — had a lovely surprise visit..
I watched Little Womenon Masterpiece Theatrelast night. What dreck! (I loved reading the novel!)
The screenwriting struck me as amateurish; it was too expositional. And the direction struck me as overly sentimental. it was debuting on Mothers’ Day; I should have known it would be “Hallmarky.” The costumes were not broken down at all and, like the spray-on snow everywhere, reinforced the artificiality of the production. I was not in any way drawn in.
Then came the wrap-up of Unforgottenon Masterpiece Mystery. It, too, disappointed me; for one thing, I’d become fatigued by Nicola Walker’s acting ticks. Then there was the scene in which her character runs into the three conspirators in the pub: I felt, as I was supposed to, the shift to sympathy with the three murderers who’d suffered abuse.
They get let off the hook. We are asked to buy the fact that two lead cops, heading a team of a dozen investigators who’d been investigating the murders for ages, let them go. How do they account for all their time and money spent on the investigation to their superiors?
I was offended to be asked to excuse mass murderers; I was offended to see revenge honored and justified in an otherwise pretty smart who-done-it.
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