I am sorry to say…

that

Your people I do not understand
So to you I wish to put and end
And you’ll never hear surf music again.

er… no. Thanks, Jimi. That’s actually exactly what I had in mind. But no.

rather, that I’m leaving you. And by you, I do mean you, chere reader. But don’t despair– it’s only for a spell. A few days. Then I’ll be back. Eventually. Probably. I promise.

It was a thought process something like this: “oh, the airlines. Baggage restrictions. carry-on bag blah. Blah not checking blah blah. Along which blah… which blah should I take my laptop in? Blah blah laptop? Wait… do I need my laptop. No. NO! Eureka! NO LAPTOP FOR ME!!! … blah blah blah.”

Heh. Well, I’m excited. For some reason. Probably because I hate the stupid thing.

Or maybe because I received my copy of Thus Spake Zarathustra tonight. “Smellest thou not already the shambles and cookshops of the spirit? Steameth not this city with the fumes of slaughtered spirits? / Seest thou not the souls hanging like limp dirty rags? — And they make newspapers also from out of these rags!”

But anyhow. I’m headed up to Duluth (MN…) to 1) cheer my dad as he runs in Duluth’s annual Grandma’s Marathon and 2) speaking of Grandmas, to pack and move my … grandmother.

My grandmother, you see, is getting old and (ostebsibly) losing her mind (like Meekyung, I suppose–at least the getting old part =P). 86 years, in fact. And it’s time for her to move to a retirement home, of sorts. Oh, yes. Kicking and screaming, perhaps. She’s managed to convince herself that she has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t, it seems, but it’s like this: if you live alone in a rather-too-large house, your husband and friends having long since died off, and you spend your days thinking your foot hurts, eventually, OW!, you’ll probably manage to convince yourself. Your foot won’t actually hurt, but you’ll act like it does– hobbling around your house: “OW!”–step–“OW!”–step–“OW!”–step–etc.

Now convince yourself that you have Alzheimer’s. Ya. How do you act? Rather erratic, I suppose. The sort of erratic that lets you appear, unannounced and unexpected, at the DIA airport for your grand-daughter’s wedding. The sort of erratic that, when your daughter, while helping you fill out some papers, asks you for your social security number you stubbornly reply, “I don’t give that out over the phone.”

… So yeah. It’s time for “the home.”

Unfortunately, as much as my grandmother is willing to convince herself that her mental fitness is failing, she doesn’t seem likely to convince herself that she needs help. She’s stubborn. And a little off-center. What a way. … What a way.

Anyhow. Such my adventures will be. So to speak. I’ll be back Sunday morning. Presumably. Presumably with my grandmother. No one really knows, though. So… wish us luck. =)

(I’ll have my mobile, so if you need/want to chat, try the digits, rather than the letters @ more letters dot com thing. Ya.)