#1 Saturday, Sept. 9: T. tells me that Q. wants to go to Yosemite. I feel guilty because there's not enough time left in our vacation to take him there (that's him, to the left of this text). Later Q. points to his right eye as if it's hurting him. I lean in close and hear, as if telepathically, "Yosemite." I have to apologize and explain to him that we're out of time...
#2 Sunday, September 10: I'm typing a letter to explain to the woman in charge how I could help out with marching band if need be, having played the drums in marching band years ago. But at the same time, they're having a meeting about it in a sort of outdoor amphitheater with raised seating, and the keys of the typewriter are also the seats where people are sitting. So I look back over the crowd as I'm typing the letter, and people sitting on the keys are shouting the letters at me: "I think this is 'A' over here," etc., and I have to look at them and think about where the letters are rather than just type with my fingers, and it's loud and slow. Finally I finish the letter and sign with the name "Michael."
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