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Yesterdays' stuff...saved on a disk...

It's actually about 7:45 am. The Joester will likely press buttons if I get onto his mom's computer to write, and I will lose everything. I am watching the boy today. I am thinking we might go on a hike, a short one, Elaine & Joey and I. That may be too ambitious, though. Oddly, I tend to lose ambition when I am here. I wonder what happens.

We went out to the Olive Garden for dinner last night. I shoveled it in - not as much as I used to eat but way more than I usually do now. I felt so stuffed and out of it. I am hoping to regain some sense of control from here on. Well, of course I will. I have been too far down this road for too long not to get back on that horse.

We went to Ethel M's Chocolate Factory to see the lighted cactus garden. So wondrous, beautiful. But I didn't have my camera with me. Maybe we can get back there again before I leave. It is hard to describe it otherwise.

2:10 pm

Many hours later. Joey is asleep on the floor of the living room. Probably I could pick him up and put him on a bed but I am not taking the chance. It has been a quiet day, really. Joey is a nice little boy, selfish as young children are yet not overly. Not unreasonably demanding, able to give up when it looks necessary. Altogether adjustable, flexible. Interested in much, learning from whatever is in front of him. Active little brains like his can use a lot of assistance. I have never been great at that, not on a continuous basis anyway.

As I read this book - My Secret History (Paul Theroux) - I keep seeing parallels to my life through this man who is in some ways like Dwain. I see this woman - two women, actually - who are so worried about losing him. He keeps his distance and they worry. They apologize for their words or actions. They second-guess themselves. This is so like me. How much easier to just be, to let go and let it be. Ray can do this. Doesn't worry what people think, expects them to take him as he is or not at all. Dwain doesn't give for another either, although he will berate himself for what he feels was bad behavior on his part. Recognizes his own insensitivity - but this has always been a question for me. If you know you are insensitive, aren't you sensitive?

It's funny how books can come along right when I can get something from them. Likely I find what I need in them and it doesn't really matter which books they are. But in this case there do seem enough parallels to make the discovery of the book fortunate.

I found a book at a used bookstore yesterday: Dare to be a Great Writer. It's got to be a better book in some ways than the usual books on writing. I keep thinking of using these times, this time, in my writing, and I think I have one way at least. There will be others.

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