In the morning, or really, afternoon, we go to the bank to transfer some money home. The holidays made for quite a bill. The exchange rate flickers every few minutes with a new number. My money is becoming more and less before my eyes.
"1,287," I say. "1,278." I don't say anything when it goes up over 1,300 again.
The economy is so uncaring.
Cathreen says in one of the sections I didn't say, "It's an expression," but I wrote down that I did. Maybe I was just thinking this. Maybe I wanted to think she didn't understand when she did. I think, even, that I didn't say, "Life is a bitch," but, "Life sucks." Simply, unambiguously, enough.
The dishes, the furniture, the carpets await me. I am off to make them look like they are new.
But before I go and clean, I think about how the elder of Cathreen's students, this morning, when he was supposed to read a play, only said what he had memorized of it, not looking at the words. I tried to make him read it, but he kept repeating mistakes that only existed in his head and not in the book before him. How can you fight what isn't really there?
the project has moved
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