Update

Autumn continues, unnaturally warm. Greenhouse Effect, anyone? The trees in the park are almost leafless. There may be a few flowers hanging on. At the moment it's sunny, but rain in predicted in the afternoon. I'm a bit sad about that. Originally it looked as it we going to have an all-day rain. I would love a long, steady rain.

I am currently proofreading the manuscript for the hwarhath story collection, plus two essays. The collection is set to come out next spring. After that, most likely, I will move on to putting together a collection of Lydia Duluth stories.

I'm still trying to come to terms with Kathe's death. I am angry -- very angry -- at her for not taking better care of herself. I am furious at her Chinese doctor, who could see K crumbling in front of her, but kept treating her chi, instead of finding out what was really wrong. In fairness to the doctor, K was pig-stubborn and wouldn't have listened to the doctor if she'd said anything K did not want to hear. 40 years ago K went to Ruth Berman's father, a traditional Western doctor, to find out why she had aches and paints. Dr. Berman said she had arthritis. There was no cure. She should take aspirin. K did not like this diagnosis, and so began -- as far as I can remember -- her exploration of Chinese medicine.

She wore the same glasses for decades, never getting a new prescription, because she didn't believe in western opticians. In the end, she had great trouble seeing. You have to negotiate with reality. You cannot bend it to your will, and your beliefs do not change it. (It's possible that she couldn't afford new glasses, but I don't think that was the reason.)

I'm angry at myself for not realizing how ill she was. I could have been a better friend, more compassionate. She never asked for help or understanding. She wouldn't, being intensely private, and I knew that. I should have seen this was a person who was failing mentally and physically and who should be treated with the kindness with which one would treat (I hope) anyone old and frail and dying. But she was my own age, almost exactly, and I didn't want to admit she was old and dying. What would that say about me?

My father had a doctor in his later years, who screwed up a bit in diagnosing and treating my father -- I think because my father was a professional person, like the doc, and about the doc's age. The doctor couldn't face the reality of my father's condition, because he could see himself in my father. Only my theory, and it didn't matter, because it didn't change what happened to my father.

I was stand-offish, in part because K had become difficult to deal with, but mostly because I couldn't deal with her aging and especially her increasing mental oddness. Like most people who work with my mind, I'm terrified of anything that damages the mind. Patrick has told me that when he worked in lock psych units, blue collar families would say, "At least it isn't his back," when a family member went around the bend. Of course, the prognosis for many forms of mental illness is good, while serious back problems tend to be permanent.

Anyway, a lot of food for thought. My hwarhath collection includes three stories about the hwarhath actor Dapple, one set when she is a baby, one when she is 20 and one when she is 40. I have a fourth story set when she is 60 and beginning to worry about old age. (The hwarhath live longer than humans do at present, but Dapple's profession is highly physical. Hwarhath actors do a lot of dancing and tumbling.) The story is also about the death of the Ettin matriarch, Ettin Taiin's mother, and about Taiin growing old. I should finish it. I think I need to write about old age.