The Visible Woman...September 4, 2003

I visit someone I once knew. Who is just a shell except that, seemingly oblivious to your presence, he says "the same age as Larry." Larry is his son. You are nine months older than Larry and so this is sort of true. You are very close to the same age. What goes on there as the shell of a man baits a hook you can't see?

People thank us for visiting Uncle Johnny. But we need to see these things for ourselves. And maybe, based on this one soft, breathless comment, he even knew we were there. That's what you hope for. The family worries about drugs and nutrition and whether the clothes are actually his that he's been dressed in. You are a little more distant. You just wonder. Wonder what he knows. Whether what he said means he remembers both Larry (who is away in London at the moment) and you. And knows you were there. Did he know Dad was there, too?

Thursday, September 4, 2003

A Journal from Austin, Texas. A Project of LBFFP Stealth Publishing.
food	reading	writing	time	exercise	health and mood

Today, when we drove by this country club in Dallas, Dad said "That country club has been there forever." I don't know if the spillway or club house are still around...you can't see anything but high fences. [Postcard for sale on ebay.]	one small phrase I visit someone I once knew. Who is just a shell except that, seemingly oblivious to your presence, he says "the same age as Larry." Larry is his son. You are nine months older than Larry and so this is sort of true. You are very close to the same age. What goes on there as the shell of a man baits a hook you can't see? People thank us for visiting Uncle Johnny. But we need to see these things for ourselves. And maybe, based on this one soft, breathless comment, he even knew we were there. That's what you hope for. The family worries about drugs and nutrition and whether the clothes are actually his that he's been dressed in. You are a little more distant. You just wonder. Wonder what he knows. Whether what he said means he remembers both Larry (who is away in London at the moment) and you. And knows you were there. Did he know Dad was there, too?
JUST TYPING Who knows what a person is thinking. Diminished capacity. But then. Who knows what anyone is thinking.
		Food Diary. *About 8am* reheated sausage, kraut, Swiss cheese roll from Czech Stop (West, Texas) *About 11am* about eight ounces of cherry coke About 1pm [Czech Stop, West, Texas] half corned-beef sandwich with mustard on homemade rye bread *About 6:30pm* three fish tacos with salsa fresca, limejuice, salda and minced marinated garlic half a bottle of Shiraz After I polished off all those fish tacos (really not so bad except for the tortillas, I guess) and my last glass of wine, I had an urge to go get this Baby Ruth that is still in my office and eat it.
		Time flies.... We visited the ill and those taking care of the ill, we drove, I made reservations and tried to organize my social life and answer queries and unpack and fold sheets and eat and clean up and read papers and watch TV.

		Reading. Reading a collection of The New Yorker Profiles...but didn't read much today. Read some newspapers in the evening.
		When I'm gone and the journal needs catching up, I feel at a little distraught. In fact, the journal feels like a burden a lot of the time. But...the journal is like exercise. I also feel bad if I don't do it. And, yeah, I feel good if I do.
		Exercise Nothing. I considered going to the club when I got back in town or taking a walk or doing some exercises at home. But nothing. Nada.
		It felt like an accomplishment to get back from Dallas after seeing everyone we intended to see.