August 1996

Last night Jackie took me to a brewery in San Rafael. Her friend Grant drove up from Berkeley and met us. It was a very nice time. Good food, good beer, good conversation. While we were outside saying goodbye Francis Ford Coppola walked by us.
Wheels are turning. The future is brewing.
I was at Mom-Suzie's rest home reading in the yard when two of the residents came out. Eugene and Lisa, who has a German accent, sat down at the table with me. We enjoyed the quiet. Both Lisa and Eugene are a little out of it and hard of hearing. Lisa who doesn't really know me turned to Eugene, pointed to me, and said, "He's a very nice man."
Eugene said, "He's Violet's son."
Lisa leaned in closer, "What?"
Eugene repeated, this time a little louder, "He's Violet's," paused, then added, "son."
"What?"
"Violet!"
"Violent?"
"Yeah."
"Really?" Lisa sat back looking shocked and disappointed.
I chuckled into the pages of the book I was reading and sighed knowing that Lisa would soon forget this befuddled exchange, and again smile at me with that pale wrinkled face of hers. Conversations evade and confuse her. It's as if she's drunk all the time. Only it's not alcohol, but age that afflicts her. I love all the residents and their humanness, their will to live no matter how old, and to carry on as they are.
I feel scant next to all I feel and hope.

I'm back from ten days in Chicago.
I'm free at last. Free of Chicago.