there is barely time to catch up with myself. different shifts of friends coming in to help with boxes (Lexi: smoking a cigarette while trundling along on the back of my scooter "I am a 4 with a a 5 wing"; Anna, also on the back of my scooter along cold grimy Market Street rainy midnight Saturday "ModgePodge! I can make doll heads. And hands! And bake them." This week, having no attention for whatever the spine specialist, if he is a hard-ass ortho-jock, might give me as a catastrophic edict about what fused vertebrae will soon do to my spinal cord. (As it were, with Dia de Juicio, when will I have time to even arrive on my new roof deck in Berkles?) Also Feinstein's office to stop the war, intro to nursing home ombudsman system, and interviewing a mom and son all in Spanish--en verdad, espnagles because there is no way I can steer anything of substance smoothly through the tenses. And the son, mostly nonverbal, Downs Syndrome. Just being with. A sponge and a filtering organ for his story. No matter what the divide. BK is sending me citrine light, so that should help.
Which is all to say, suffice it for now, some grainy photos of last week's first :working class reading series. Thanks to everyone who came.
