He's gone again.


Back to school. The morning before he left, I mentioned the Talib Kweli concert at UOP that night, and offered to show him how to make sugo di carne bolognese al la Sustainable Table as he had requested.

By ten o'clock that night, the dishes were finally finished from the meal I cooked alone, and served to Sonnyboy and the friend he took with him to the concert. I stayed home and wrote about what a shipwrecked standstill my busted life had become, and then watched Strike.


Lessons learned - all bustedness is a matter of degree. I have anxiety that lets me win once in awhile so it can pop up as mono or PTSD a week later. I can't deal with; elevators, public transportation, witnessing public neglect/abuse of children, traveling alone, tunnels, and crowds. I never finished high school. I have, as Agnieska said, 'no talents'.

That is no reason why I can't do the things I'm bound to do. Agnieska was illiterate and twice widowed, and had cancer, and she, literally, only stopped to worry for about five minutes about any of those things before going onto her union organizing. Reluctantly, and with deep conflicts, like most real leaders do.

Also - we all 'risk the love of a son' on the way to his becoming a man, and our own becoming the woman we are bound to be.




30 of the 50 people employed in my division signed a letter of support on my behalf before my review hearing last week. I just found out.

Brokenness is as brokenness does, I guess.





Mark Morford answered my letter this morning. It was a good one.