working and walking (and sometimes talking)

I'm doing the second pass on the Korean studies manuscript that I slogged through last year. The downside is that I've already been paid for this work (a grant was expiring), but I guess the timing is pretty good, since I'm sheltering in place anyway. 

I'm making slow progress on setting up m+d with in-home services -- I decided on an agency that I think might be OK, at any rate. D thought he'd convinced them when he was visiting last week, but the conversation didn't register with them the way it did with D. When I called yesterday, there was a lot of vagueness about it and there has been some backsliding on the whole idea. As usual. Now I am hoping the agency will agree to lower their minimum number of hours per week, at least initially. I don't think I can convince m+d to accept two three-hour visits per week. 

The other day, John the mailman delivered an envelope addressed to Margarita Delgado at my street number. The envelope was hand addressed and I could see that there was a check inside. I did some online sleuthing and discovered that Margarita lives in the "noisy house" across the street from my neighbor Ellie. I feel a little less annoyed by their noisiness now that I've interacted with them. Funny how that works. 

Yesterday I hardly walked at all -- instead, I had a lengthy conversation with Marlon, who owns the big house next door. He told me that his brother-in-law was shot and killed in December (a few blocks away, in the Oakdale housing project). I remember reading about that. Marlon's brother-in-law worked for the Housing Authority; according to Marlon, he lived in the Oakdale projects because he didn't have to pay rent. The shooter was wearing a mask, and he came and went in a car driven by someone else. No one has been arrested, yet, but there has been a lot of talk about this or that person being motivated by this or that petty grievance. Marlon is struggling with the cascading impact. He is particularly sad because he no longer sees his niece, Michaela, who practically lived with him for years. It has something to do with the way Michaela's mother is dealing, or not dealing, with Michaela's father's death. Oy, I sound like I'm outlining the plot of a soap opera. For me, it is unimaginable.

WAH and SIP

It's been two weeks since I stopped working at the office and going to movies, or other people's houses, or restaurants. I have gotten better at remembering that I need to go  outside. Leaving the house is a good way to mark the end of the work day. I have been exploring the neighborhood and noticing interesting details -- paint colors, landscaping, architectural features, DIY efforts, people hanging out in their garages (often talking about the quarantine), clouds, trees. I've seen and chatted with neighbors I hadn't seen for a while. I've exchanged pleasantries with neighbors I'd never seen before. I've gotten out of my cooking rut, mostly. I've spent more time on the phone than I usually do, ventured into using Zoom for social gatherings, and texted with a range of friends -- from neighbors to people who live far away.

I am doing fine, for the most part.

Yesterday I walked through Silver Terrace, following its curving streets up and down the hill. Many of the houses over there were built mid-century or later -- in fact, there was a Catholic orphanage at the top of the hill until the late 1970s, and so that part of the neighborhood has a 1980s suburban vibe. The rain clouds were moving overhead, intensifying the light, and then it started to rain -- just a smattering. As I crested the hill I spotted a rainbow -- or the tail end of one -- across the bay.

I wish I felt confident that this sheltering in place is going to make up for the bungling and corruption at the federal level. I wish I could feel confident that this bungling and corruption will be voted out of office in November. I wish my neighbors would stop parking and driving on my sidewalk. I wish I could move ahead with my entryway rebuild. I wish I felt more engaged at work.

I need to find in-home care for Mom and Dad. I can't seem to decide on an agency -- some have minimum hours of service that seem to high, others seem too smarmy. Also, I'm not sure whether these agencies will take on new clients during the pandemic. I know, I just need to plow ahead.

self-defeat

From Helen Epstein, "Left Behind," NYRB

America’s white working class seems to have fashioned a new culture of pain and trauma, rooted in white America’s peculiar imperative to seem happy all the time (unless you’re sick) and to personalize and depoliticize financial hardship. This self-defeating belief system is reinforced by neoliberal “government is the problem” slogans and self-help gurus such as Melody Beattie, author of Codependent No More, who warn against getting wrapped up in other people’s problems. “If Tori dies, that’s on her,” one of Silva’s informants said of her drug-addicted sister.
. . .  

Opioids, my drug-using friends say, don’t just ease pain. They liken the effect to the warmth of bonding with a newborn or being praised for a great piece of work. These drugs stimulate the dopamine system in the brain, which, among other things, helps make the world appear more meaningful. No wonder they seem to be the perfect medicine for the anomie that is blighting so many American lives.

sleep-wrecked

I am making it through the day, just barely. Last night was brutal. The sleep would not come. I listened to a podcast about Esther Williams, streamed a couple of episodes of Cheers -- soothingly bland, but not quite soothing enough. Got up to pee. Listened to a podcast about an investigation that changed the way fires are investigated.

Thought about Dad. He told me they need to move to California but they don't know where or how. And then he said I shouldn't go out of my way to help them figure it out. Oh, dear. Truth be told, I haven't done a lot to figure it out. Not yet.

Thought about work. Ugh. Thought about Warren and the many, many people who didn't vote for her. Thought about my garage. It was all spinning round and round and I was turning over and over.

The usual, in short.