Slowly I think things are getting better with Kristen’s father. He’s absolutely got certain types of untreatable pain, but a LOT of it is when he’s down he can’t remember being up, or can’t believe “up” will come again – and that’s frustrating from the outside, but is practically the definition of depression. We’re working on it. I’m trying to be better about timing what’s happening and when. I can be aware of things like “it took 45 minutes for him to get civil today, but it took an hour yesterday”. It’s all about motion and emotion and momentum.
The temperature dropped dramatically last night and that helps tamp down the feeling that we’re just surrounded by dust and grit. My allergies were really playing up yesterday, and that dust and grit was in my eyes and tongue and throat and eyes – but today going to get the mail the air’s treating us pretty civil.
This whole trip has been an exercise in sympathy without empathy, action through exhaustion. Kristen’s been amazing and I’m trying hard not to let her down. I think we’re being good grownups.
(it’s a shame the link below won’t embed as a video – but Facebook is being Facebook – we spend time each week with me going through the recordings we made from old tapes that Bill sent us, recordings from the 40s through the 60s of his teacher, Alexander Borovsky, playing piano. Some are fascinating, some are in terrible shape, some are backwards… we’re doing some sleuthing, tracking down where they’re from and trying to understand their context… it’s strange realizing that as one of the best of these recordings was being captured, B52s were closing on Nagasaki…)
https://www.facebook.com/615539813/videos/902187653799911/
Everyone’s sweet, people are friendly, though it is promised that would shift on a dime if we talked politics (all of this is written staring at the neighbour’s “Let’s Go Brandon” Trump-cult flag) and I must admit that as I walk down the street in this little community I DO think to myself “I’m lucky I’m white”… there’s one African-American guy who whizzes by on a bicycle and I have the suspicion he’s happier doing that than going on foot…
Other observations : Physical therapists are very, very loud people, probably even before masks were popular. I get up, get the mail, water the pianos (huh, did you know you had to water pianos?), check in on the world and problem-solve and put out fires and generally try to make the world a better place around me.
What I miss is playing my heart out. I feel like even when I pick up my guitar I’ve got to be quiet. I can’t sing loud. It’s a classical music house and beyond that a house of NOISE. Too much distraction. It’s hard to focus. I’d like to come home or play a show. Either would go a long, long way.
Ha – either would require going a long, long way.