Quiet

I'm writing a story. It feels good. I haven't written anything since I finished The Room. Well, any stories I mean. I sure write a lot of crap on my blog though.

It seems the most immediate part of the crisis in the South has passed. Now comes the recriminations, the blame, the finger-pointing, the how the fuck could this happen. It's been written about by better writers than me. It's been felt by people who have felt it a lot harder than me. That doesn't make it any easier to watch.

We had dinner with M's parents and sister tonight. His sister suffered a terrible asthma attack last night that lasted hours, and M's parents brought her to the hospital in the middle of the night. She still sounded wheezy today. They wanted to keep her overnight because despite her airways sounding clearer, her oxygen levels were not where they should have been. She refused to stay. I don't blame her. When I had my chest tube in last year, I wanted out of the hospital almost more than I wanted to be able to take a real breath without feeling like God had my lungs in a pair of needle-nosed pliers. It's pretty miserable to stay in a hospital. I hope she is okay and doesn't have to go back. I think she hates it there as much as I do.

I don't have much to say. I feel pretty quiet tonight, as though if I started writing much, I'd drop off a ledge and get lost. So I'm working on transferring my stories from Blog.com to a Blogger site. I'm trying to edit them in the process, clean them up a bit. It is something to do. I can't sleep, yet.