If Social Services can’t come up with anything better than placing the two children in foster care (Child Protection, a sacred duty, you know) while letting the parents roam the streets, someone last night offered to put up the family in the downstairs apartment in her home. Which would prove a hardship for both families so I’ll keep plugging away at Social Services.
(The final eviction notice for “no later than October 12” arrived yesterday. This being the era in which NovLang rules, the letter was signed by the Chief of a service called Social Inclusion, a division of the Social Cohesion and Population Protection Directorate of the Departmental Direction bearing the same title, itself part of the Préfecture of this French Department. Monsieur le Chef du service inclusion sociale reiterated the eviction notice but made no suggestion whatsoever for socially including the family into other living quarters not subject to the foggy, foggy dew.)
Prior to the father bringing me the letter at the Social Center, and as a treat for his memorizing a multiplication table, I was reading a cartoon version of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist to a young boy for whom the story made perfect sense. In fact, his only question was whether the Dawkins solution would be a permanent or a temporary placement for Oliver. An important consideration to which he could relate.
No surprise in the nightmarish aspect of dream time last night. Squatters (friends of friends of people once known) had taken over the rental the dreamer occupied, and were in the process of wrecking the place with their partying. A man the dreamer liked very much left just as the relationship seemed about to take a qualitative step upward. He was replaced by a man with nasty teeth, and an even nastier smile, and murky green eyes alight at the thought of taking the dreamer deeper into his nightmarish world. (He was a dead ringer for a younger brother version of Fagin in the cartoon depiction. From which I gather all this pertains to the world of story.)
Another day during which one-thing-at-a-time rules as mantra. Why some of my first early morning thoughts were for Richard Powers’ The Echo Maker? Because of his description of cranes landing at nightfall, maybe. “Ribbons of them roll down, slack against the sky. They float in from all compass points, in kettles of a dozen, dropping with the dusk. Scores of Grus canadensis settle on the thawing river. They gather on the bland flats, grazing, beating their wings, trumpeting, the advance wave of a mass evacuation. More birds land by the minute, the air red with calls.”
Clear sky during the walk with the dog. Planets, moon and stars as bright and crisp as brass nails hammered into night blue tin. (I love good descriptions but they’re not my forte. Dialogue is more up my alley, at least, it comes more naturally.)