Mom and Me

Mom and I rode on the Tennessee River Gorge Explorer yesterday, and what a class act that is. It was incredibly fun. We saw gorgeous scenery, a bald eagle, blue herons galore, turtles piled up in the sun.

We went to the Big Table for dinner. It's a homey little restaurant that we love, and it's right down the road from the Terrace where she lives.

We order and take a few photos of each other.
Then it starts again. "Are you my daughter?"
"Yes, Mom! I'm Linda."
"You're Linda? Are you sure?"
"Yes, Mom, who did you think I was?" (I'm very curious about that.)

For the past two nights, around dinner time or right after dinner time, Mom can't place exactly who I am. She can believe that Aggles and I are sisters, but not that we're her daughters.

"I wish I had known you were my daughters when you were growing up!" This goes on and on. At first it was shocking and it hurt. But it's fascinating, too, and now I'm just trying to find out as much as I can about how her mind is working.

"Did you know my dog, Ling?" she'll ask.
"No, Mom. Ling died before I was born."
"He had the thickest, reddest-orange fur."
"I know! And a purple tongue."
"Yes!"

At one point I look over and notice a little announcement on the table in a plastic frame. The Big Table will be having Sunday brunch next weekend. Aggles will be here and I bet she'll want to take Mom. I point it out to Mom. "I've got to remember to tell Aggles about it." I struggle to find a pen but can't, so I dig out my phone to type the info into it. Mom looks at the camera and pipes up: "Can't you just take a picture?"

"Mom. You're a genius." I snap the photo in one second. This is what I mean by fascinating. I always thought when one part of the mind gets dim, all the other parts go along with it. This is one of the things that makes it so hard for her to be living in the memory wing. Her memory is the worst, but other parts of her mind are sharp as a tack. Here you go, Aggles:

Waves

Waving goodbye!

See you in Chattanooga tomorrow morning bright and early. I thought I had made my reservation for a 10:50 am flight but discovered a few days ago that I had made it for 10:50 pm.

iPhone Finger Paint

When I found out the June 1st cover of the New Yorker was done on an iPhone (by Jorge Columbo), you can probably guess what software I had to download immediately. Yes, Brushes, for $4.99.

I'm displaying my first piece of Brushes art below for you to see before the New Yorker gets its hands on it:

Fascinating! You can actually watch the playback of Jorge drawing here.

Found in the Sand This Evening

artist unknown

Don't Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth

This movie is a gift.

Why are the reviews so negative? OK, OK, so the original screenplay was written in the 70's for Zero Mostel. And yes, Boris Yellnikoff does turn and address the audience a few times.

This wonderful story/fairytale is the essence of what I'm after when I go to the movies. It's transforming and magical and smart.

If you're scared by the reviews criticizing Larry David's abrasiveness, don't be. He's the perfect Boris. And buckets of humanity, humor, and good will spill in on him from every direction.

When it was over I grabbed Tom's arm and said, "I loved that movie." Thank you, Woody Allen.

Wash and Dry

Here are two things that went through the washer and dryer this week:

1. My earbuds–the standard ones that come with i-pods and phones from Apple–earbuds that everyone including me complains about, because they don't fit any human ear.

2. A precious pair of Bjørn Borg underwear.

The earbuds, which were in my jeans pocket, survived not only the wash and rinse cycle perfectly fine–they also emerged unscathed from the dryer (only one setting: Blast Furnace). Music sounds as wonderful as ever, and both the mic and the off/on switch work without a hiccup.

The underwear is another story, but I have a plan. Tomorrow I'm going down the street to the Bridge to see the movie Food, Inc. I'm going to buy a large popcorn, because I figure it will be the last bag of popcorn I ever buy after seeing this movie. (I usually finish my popcorn before the feature starts anyway.) After seeing Food, Inc. I'm sure I will never want to eat food again, and the xxxSmall underwear will work fine, too.

Meow

To Inform and Delight

Instead of the Woody Allen movie we went to see the Milton Glaser movie To Inform and Delight and I'm still enchanted. It's almost midnight and I'm in such a trance that I haven't even begun to get the garbage and recycling together for pickup tomorrow. The movie's playing at the Roxie in the Mission; the evening light in the Mission on 16th Street was intoxicating to begin with.

Milton's love for New York City brought my love for San Francisco to the surface. I walked out rejuvenated and full of love for my work and my surroundings. Not only does Milton live for his work, but he loves eating lunch too. You get to meet his wife Shirley in the movie, and also Jean Michel Folon.

To give you an idea of what he's like, here are Ten Things I Have Learned from a talk he gave in London. (Thanks, Meg.) Here's #1. Do you agree?

YOU CAN ONLY WORK FOR PEOPLE THAT YOU LIKE.
This is a curious rule and it took me a long time to learn because in fact at the beginning of my practice I felt the opposite. Professionalism required that you didn’t particularly like the people that you worked for or at least maintained an arms length relationship to them, which meant that I never had lunch with a client or saw them socially. Then some years ago I realised that the opposite was true. I discovered that all the work I had done that was meaningful and significant came out of an affectionate relationship with a client. And I am not talking about professionalism; I am talking about affection. I am talking about a client and you sharing some common ground. That in fact your view of life is someway congruent with the client, otherwise it is a bitter and hopeless struggle.

Earth to NASA

e-mail from Aggles:

Unkay. New job for you.

October 9th of this year NASA is bombing the moon. I love NASA and I love space exploration but does this plan not sound a little off-base?

Why do we have to bomb everything in sight? The desire to colonize the Moon and outer space doesn't make sense when we can't even keep our own planet clean.

I think you should stop what you're doing and start working on some adorable protest t-shirt, messenger bag, and coffee mug designs.

I just can’t believe we are bombing the moon.
Morons.
••••••••••••

I agree. Don't we have enough things to blow up here on earth without picking on the moon? The rocket will crash into the moon at 5,600 mph, creating a new "crater" 5 miles wide.

I designed the shirt. You can buy it at our Earth to NASA shop. We've only marked them up $1.00, but still they cost an arm and a leg. Aggles, you may have to come and set up a t-shirt operation in our basement.

Wait. I just set up an economy site. The shirts are white and not so eleganté, but you can buy the value t-shirt for $9.99 as opposed to $19.99. Or the classic thong for $8.99.

Off the Trail

We fell into step with a Heffalump on the Coastal Trail this evening. Have you ever been loping along and suddenly find yourself right in front of, then right behind, then right in front of, then right behind, somebody very large with a voice like a foghorn?

Finally we slowed way down and stepped off the trail. We walked 20 feet down a little path, and came upon this room, straight out of a fairy tale.

Three Tiny Good Things

from Trader Joe's this evening:

1. Organic Strawberries

2. Old Fashioned Salted Blister Peanuts

3. Valrhona Dark Bittersweet Chocolate 71% Cocoa


One Tiny Not-So-Good Thing













1. Another pair of Bjorn Børg underwear dried beyond recognition

Other People's Mail

Subject: Happy Sunday, Mom!
From: linda
Date: June 19, 2009 9:27:18 PM PDT
To: martha@presto.com
1 Attachment, 29.4 KB

Enjoy your big Sunday paper, and don't forget snacks.
(And water!!)

Love, Linda













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The last thing I do every night is e-mail Mom a picture and a note. She gets it at 8:00 the next morning on her Presto machine. I title the notes something like Happy Wednesday, Mom! or Have a Great Thursday, Mom! Her memory isn't working and a title that includes the day of the week confirms for her what day it is when she wakes up.

The day after I sent Mom the e-mail above, Aggles called.

Aggles: I just talked to Mom and she's confused.

Me: I know. She lost one of her Prestos.

Aggles: (long pause) Linda, what day is this?

Me: ... Saturday.

Aggles: Do you realize what you put on Mom's Presto last night?

A sick feeling came over me. I can't tell you how bad I felt about telling Mom to enjoy her big Sunday paper on Saturday. Not only did I feel bad about confusing her, but I also felt embarrassed. The person helping Mom dress probably saw it, and it would be easy for her to guess who would be moving into the memory unit next.

Yesterday morning (Monday) Aggles sent me a concerned e-mail with the day of the week and the date in gigantic red letters. She reminded me to relax the muscles around my eyes and to relax my jaw, and she mentioned meditation.

This afternoon I talked to Mom:

Mom: What day is today? Let's see. Is it 265-1411?

Me: It's Tuesday, June 23rd. I know you'll never trust me again after what I did last weekend, but I know for sure that it's Tuesday, June 23rd because that's what my computer says.

Mom couldn't remember what I did. I reminded her that I had told her to have a happy Sunday on Saturday.

Mom laughs: That's all right!

Me: It may be all right with you, but I don't think Aggles or I will ever get over it.

Mom: Oh well. Aggles is a perfectionist.