Malala Yousafzai just graduated from Oxford with a Philosophy, Politics and Economy degree.  Age 11 she was shot in the head  by a Taliban coward (who has just escaped from prison) for daring to advocate for girls education. An eleven year old child who knew and spoke her truth.  It nearly killed her but it also freed her. 

Finished reading a tiny gem of a book,True Pleasures:  A Memoir of Women in Paris by Lucinda Holdforth.  Women of every age, of any age, fleeing to Paris to become themselves rather than be crafted by the society and age they lived in.  George Sand, Coco Chanel, Edith Wharton, Nancy Mitford,  Pamela Digby Churchill Leland Harriman, Madame Pompadour, Gertrude Stein, Colette, Empress Josephine, Madame du Barry.  These women managed to scrape away the societal layers of male expectation(and female collaboration) to find who and what they were.  Their lives became larger than life because of this.  Finding ones true nature or purpose, even if it is only to be a mistress to a king, or write books in an age when women didn't, or design clothes.  They didn't have to be famous to be larger than life. 

Do we make ourselves small by living to the dictates of others?  Would our light shine brighter if the layers of 'stuff' were removed? 

The second night without a television.  It is a sneaky addiction.  I feel the loss.  The droning voice of a newscaster or the tired reprisal of the endlessly repeated Hollywood plotlines are company.  But I turned on the radio.  Oh no, Faust the opera.   Put on Joni Mitchell instead (Taming the Tiger then Turbulent Indigo) and tried to 'do' art.   Worked on the large pencil drawing but found I was uncomfortable.  There is no room.  I have to slide into the chair and it's not at a comfortable height.  Ditched the drawing and brought over the smaller watercolour background to see if I could find anything in it.  Took photos of strangler figs on the Dallis Park walk.  Used them.  Made a start but couldn't settle.

Lying awake at 2am the answer is obvious.  Change the furniture.  Move the couch back where it was before we bought the behemoth recliner (which is going to Richard tomorrow), and put the art table, office chair and armchair where the couch is.  Lots more room - and room to try and find the right chair for the art table. 

Richard was sitting on his bed yesterday, slumped and lethargic.  Got him to move outside where the sun was finally shining and a bush turkey was busy scraping together his nest mound.  Rubbed creme on his face, the psoriasis has returned with a vengeance.  He would answer my questions or make a comment, usually having little or anything to do with the subject, while staring fixedly into the middle distance.  Unblinking.  Partway through the visit a nurses aide came to tell me I was not to sit outside as I might infect one of the residents who might be walking by.  So back to the clean well appointed but stuffy depressing room - only because it is four walls - for the remainder.  The only time he perked up was to walk me out to the lobby. 

He is going to the dining room for meals and has met some people although he can't remember their names.  The nurses are kind to him, although he complained of a little Japanese nurse, Noriko? who was always getting him to do stuff - like have a shave or a shower.  As the strangeness of the surroundings become more familiar he is retreating into himself.  Every day he's been there, and while he was at the hospital, he knew who I was.   Was that a part of him being hyper vigilant because of the strangeness of the surroundings?   And now the surroundings are no longer threatening in their strangeness will there come a time when he won't know me again?

The 90+ lady in the next room, whimpers and pleads when they bathe her.  She is bedridden.  I saw a glimpse of her as I left.  24 hours a day in a bed.  The tedium only broken by the needs of the body.  I hope she has a rich inner life.  If not, I'd rather be dead.

I touch him all the time, hold his hand, put my arm across his shoulders, kiss his head, stroke his arm.  When I leave I hug him and ask he put his arms around me to hug me back.   But it is not enough.  The thief continues to plunder.