I am reading Middle Age, by Joyce Carol Oates. Oates is one of those writers I think of as a "real" writer. It's interesting that many of the reviews refer to her "story-telling ability". There is so much more than story-telling. Always an extra twist, in this case Socrates. Something that makes me think about my own life.
She's a strange looking writer. Almost a parody of the New York cynical intellectual, what you'd expect that person to look like. It doesn't matter because she's real under that.
I am also exploring what we can do in our brief time in Washington, DC, in April. All day Sunday will be wiped out by the march and related speeches and so on. That evening we are likely to spend with Liisa and her family. The next morning, Monday, is the only full day for exploration, and we have Tuesday morning as well. Not much time but something. There is so much to see that we need to narrow it down. Find what is most important to us.
Mary's computer is blooey. I am trying to help her when she is near the computer and can do something. She is impatient, just wants it fixed. It's difficult.