Unfinished Heart

I shouldn't be allowed to read. Progressing to page 116 of The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen, it has begun to sink in with some clarity that I am a weak human being, a pathetic character with few redeeming characteristics. Probably my best quality is my tendency to isolate myself, thereby sparing society the embarrassment of my presence. My thought processes are too close to Chip's for comfort.

"I'm saying the structure of the entire culture is flawed," Chip said. "I'm saying the bureaucracy has arrogated the right to define dertain states of mind as 'diseased.' A lack of desire to spend money becomes a symptom of disease that requires expensive medication. Which medication then destroys the libido, in other words destroys the appetite for the one pleasure in life that's free, which means the person has to spend even more money on compensatory pleasures. The very definition of mental 'health' is the ability to participate in the consumer economy. When you buy into therapy, you're buying into buying. And I'm saying that I personally am losing the battle with a commercialized, medicalized, totalitarian modernity right this instant." (The Corrections)

In the real world I drove across the state to see Dolly yesterday, and after signing her out of the retirement home, swept her away for a couple of hours. ("Are you sure it's ok if I leave?" "Did you tell them I was leaving?")

We ate at a riverfront restaurant where everyone looked "familiar" to Dolly, as usual. "The people at that table over there look familiar," she said. "You always think people look familiar. You don't know them, Dolly," I reply. And let's face it, everyone in the midwest looks pasty and overweight. Later, as they were leaving the restaurant, the "familiar" people stopped to say "hello" to Dolly. It turns out they are old friends.

"That girl has a big butt and tight pants," said Dolly, observant as ever. I watch her study the faces at the surrounding tables. "Do you call Georgia and Willa," I ask? Dolly assures me that she doesn't call either of my sisters, but to make sure, I quickly quiz her. "What is Willa's speed-dial number? "I don't know!" exclaims Dolly. "What's Georgia's," I demand. "I don't know." Satisfied, I smile at her across the table.

"You're so pretty," Dolly says. "I think about you all the time."