Oh, glory--I went to bed and woke in my own house. I know. Things are not perfect. Indeed, I've problems to deal with, but I've decided I must. As someone one said, first you create your environment, then your environment creates you.
"Où habitez-vous?"
I remember reading once that that phrase in French gave rise to a more philosophical question than a physical address. "Where do you live?" shares a border with "How do you live?"
In any case. . . my cousin arrived at my mother's house late yesterday afternoon/early evening--it is difficult this time of year to determine which--and having had my Campari on the deck already, I went over and chatted for a bit. She had brought a girl with her, a 5'10" eleven year old who she calls her granddaughter but who is not. She is the daughter of a woman her son had a child with. The woman is now living with another man, but she shares custody of the child they had together. When one child comes over, however, so does the other. It is confusing in that hillbilly way we have. Looking at the girl, it is seriously difficult to remember she is only eleven. She looks like a pretty eighteen year old. Her brain, though, is definitely eleven. I think she must have a very hard time in life reconciling her physical and mental beings.
After a short while, I asked what they were going to do for dinner, for I was hoping to extract myself from the scene. My cousin said the girl wanted sushi. I felt guilty because I did not want to go to dinner with them but I had decided I would go for sushi when I left. Guilt overrode my selfish intentions, however, and I asked, "Really? Do you want to go get sushi?" The "little" girl jumped for joy. "Can we go?" she asked my cousin folding her hands nervously. My mother, of course, didn't care to come, so I loaded my cousin and the kid into the Xterra and took them to one of my favorite places.
We had a twenty minute wait, and as we sat on the couches outside waiting, thousands of affluent and fashionable teenage girls walked by on the sidewalk. I felt for the eleven year old. She sat rigidly and stared straight ahead at the ground only occasionally moving her eyes. I remember that feeling exactly and precisely. It had always been uncomfortable going someplace nice with my hillbilly family. I could feel the difference in my bones. The little girl was silent. O.K. I thought, I will joke her out of it.
There was no joking her out of it.
We were seated at a sidewalk table that was fairly secluded, and the little girl loosened up a bit. She knew what she wanted to eat which was good. My cousin looked at the prices and I could feel the little jolt. I didn't say anything, but I planned on picking up the tab. My cousin didn't want sushi, so I suggested the bibimbap. The service was slow, but the waitress was fun and the food delicious--everyone was happy. The little girl wolfed hers down so quickly that I asked if she wanted more. She looked at my cousin without answering.
"Don't look at her. I'm buying. Do you want more?"
Indeed she did. I drank two carafes of sake just to take the hillbilly edge off. I felt good, better, even. I wore one of my new linen shirts. I haven't been wearing collared shirts for years now. I have no need. But I felt positively handsome. These are not real linen, but Chinese "linen," cheap but not, I think, meretricious. I've ordered more.
The little girl was desirous of something called Dubai chocolate. Apparently it is a thing. I might have known this when I was working at the factory, but now, in isolation, there are fads and trends I have no knowledge of. The waitress told us that there was a little Arab market not far away that would probably have it at at reasonable price. But when dinner was done, I didn't feel like searching it out, so I told my cousin she could take the little girl in the morning. I drove them back to my mother's and came home.
As has become my disgusting habit, I fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up, I decided to take two sleeping pills. And last night, I had the most glorious sleep and sweet and lovely dreams. In my dreams, I was being more deliberate in life, doing things with intention and purpose, living more slowly and enjoying the details. In my dreams, I had a camera. I was was living in an "où habitez-vous" way.
So it seemed.
My problems have not gone away, but this morning, I am trying not to let them overwhelm me.
"One good day, dear God. . . just one good day!"
I had an idea yesterday. I asked ChatGPT to write an essay in my style. I have years of writing here, of course. In ten seconds, it had. Here is what it said about my style:
Here’s a roughly 500‑word piece about paddling down the St. John’s River in Florida, written in the loose, reflective, anecdotal voice of C.S.—uneven, conversational, self-aware, quietly observant.
I thought that was quite a good description. I might have thrown in "whimsical," but. . . . I sent the essay to Q who laughed and said there were problems but overall in places it sounded quite like me. I had given Chat a stupid and simple prompt, but I believe if I were more thoughtful, Chat would give a better, more accurate response. It is a silly danger, though. I mean, on days when I am having difficulty writing. . . .
This note was added to the end of the essay:
That’s about 500 words—or close enough. It’s quiet, slightly messy, reflective, anecdotal.
This morning, I asked Chat to do one in Q's style. It was remarkably different. I don't want to share his with you, but maybe he will. Who knows?
One more from Q.
Youtu.be. . . or not tu.be?
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