Wednesday

August 2, 2000

"The collector dreams that he is not only in a distant or past world but also, at the same time, in a better one, in which, although men are as unprovided with what they need as in the everyday world, things are free of the drudgery of being useful."

Walter Benjamin, Louis Philippe, or the Interior

evidence of ADD?

freedom to be useless

Work made me feel responsible for everything and capable of nothing.

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I started this entry. Then the program crashed. Of course, I save all the time. But I'd written quite a bit before this crash. It is so disconcerting to see the page come up without all your stuff. Sigh.

After work I went to the parents' house. Mom was fixing up miniature displays, complaining of a backache. They have discovered some broken drawers on furniture. Mom was looking for a box she couldn't find. I was no help I recorded changes her doctor made to her drugs for a info sheet I'm printing out and I helped Mom send an e-mail to her sister. I feel useless.

Dad talks about the birds he's seen and the squirrels. (No more armadillo diggings, thankfully.) He is easily entertained.

"Cancel your newspaper when you go to Denver," I say.

"I always did at home," he says, unaware that he is still acting like this isn't home.

"The neighbors wouldn't read it or I wouldn't have done it," he continues. "They would just leave them in the wrappers. I can't understand people who don't read." He slips on his drug store reading glasses and looks at a piece of the day's papers.

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Useless at my parents, I go home and arrive about when FFP does. He cooks portobella mushrooms with goat cheese.

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I worked the New York Times Crossword puzzle today! You know what that means? It's Wednesday. I can almost never finish it on Wednesday. Small victory.

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When FFP is depressed, I am, too. Depression is contagious. I don't get depressed about what he does. I get depressed because he is. If I'm also depressed on my own agenda then it's a double whamy. I try not to show him my depression about work problems. Usually I fail to hide it, though. So, yeah, I'm depressed. The funny thing is: as soon as I say so in writing, it diminishes.

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