Thanksgiving at my parents' house; many many relatives milling about as I'm leaving, in driveway. I spot my father's mother looking around, and am happy to see her, and go over to say goodbye. The hug goodbye doesn't work right, she's as confused as I at first, but as we hold arms she seems to stumbling backwards; eventually we traverse the neighbor's lawn this way. She says something about a defect and might be implying the problem is her shoe heels. We unclasp and she lies down in the driveway. She is clearly not the same: smaller, thinner, balder, unwell. Someone goes for help. I feel like I should be doing something, but there's nothing I can do. Wondering where my father is.
My car is parked out across the street due to relatives. I go there to retrieve my Les Paul guitar and bring it into the house. All the relatives have cleared the lawn as I walk straight up it to the front door; they (mostly kids) are being corraled to the right of the front stoop so they don't see what's going on in the driveway. I look in that direction as I walk up, and see possibly my father waving me on, like "don't look." As I reach the door, I try to console one of the kids by talking of fun things we are going to do.
I go upstairs to see how my mother is faring. She's cooking at the stove with her back to me. I try to get a read but cannot see her face and she doesn't turn around.
A week ago: Hiding in Paul McCartney's basement, looking for something. His house is on a upper middle class suburban street - big basement, nighttime. He and entourage/family are arriving - I have to get out or hide.
Also: The worst gig ever: technical problems, noisy crowd. I leave the microphone for a second and someone else gets up with a guitar and starts singing. I patiently wait.
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