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ringing phones about country—random area codes, numbers. But no answers, of course; and presently noticed tears streaming down face. Decided not emotionally healthy practice. Discontinued.
    3. Employed carpentry tools, pieces of existing makeshift accommodation to fabricate proper stand for brother. Promptly demonstrated gratitude by chewing through perch (which had not bothered for whole month!). Replaced with thick, hardwood sledge handle; sneered, dared him try again. Thereby gained temporary victory: Fiend immediately resumed game but achieving little progress. Wish had stands from upstairs in house. Are three, all eleven years old—still undamaged (of course, perches consist of hard-cured, smooth-cast concrete—detail possibly relevant to longevity).
    Guess that's it for now. Watch this space for further stirring details.

    Two months—hard to believe not millennia. Einstein correct: Time is relative. Hope doesn't get more so; probably stop altogether. Have wondered occasionally if already hasn't.
    Not to imply boredom. Gracious, how could be bored amidst unremitting pressure from giddy round of social activities? For instance, just threw gala party to celebrate passing of second month. Was smash, high point of entombment, sensation of sepulchral social schedule. Went all out—even invited Terry (desperately relieved to find invitee able to squeeze event into already busy whirl of commitments).
    First-class event: Made cake, fried chicken thighs; broiled small steak; even found ice cream. All turned out well. Preferred steak, cake myself; honored guest chose ice cream (to eyebrows), chicken bones (splits shafts, devours marrow—possibly favoritest treat of all). No noisemakers in inventory (gross oversight), but assemblage combined efforts to compensate. At peak of revelry birdbrain completed chewing through perch. Was standing on end at time, of course; accepted downfall with pride, air of righteous triumph. Then waddled purposefully in direction of nearest chair leg. Had to move fast to dissuade.
    Replaced perch.
    Also have read one-hundred and four microfilmed books, regular volumes. Am possibly world's foremost living authority on everything.
    As if matters.
    Later.

    Ever wanted something so bad could almost taste, needed so long seemed life's main ambition? Finally got—wished hadn't?
    You guessed: three months up— finally!
    Went upstairs, outside. Stayed maybe two hours. Wandered old haunts: familiar neighborhood, Main Street shopping area, Quarry Lake Park, school, Y, etc.
    Should have quit sooner; would, had understood nature of penalty accruing. By time got back was already too late; trembling all over, tears running down face. Scabs all scraped from wounds; worms awake, gnawing soul. In parlance of contemporaries-past, was bad trip.
    However, conditions outside are fact of life, something must face. Must overcome reaction unless intend to spend balance of years simulating well-read mole. Nature works slowly, methods unaesthetic; tidying up takes years. Inescapable; must accept as is; develop blind spot, immunity. Meanwhile will just have to cope best I can with resulting trauma each time crops up until quits cropping.
    Well, coping ought be no problem. Catharsis worked before, should again. But wish were some other way. No fun; hurts almost as much second time around. But works—and already learned cannot function with psyche tied in knots. So time to quit stalling. "Sooner started, sooner done; sooner outside, having fun."—Anon. (Understandably.)
    Only just can't right now. Not in mood; still hurting too bad from initial trauma. Guess I'll go read some more. Or pound something together with hammer.
    Or apart.
    Later.

    Okay. Feel no better yet, but feel less bad. Is time got on with therapy.
    Suspect current problems complicated by déjà vu . Still retain vivid mental picture of body of Momma Foster minutes after pronounced dead. Bore physical resemblance to warm, wise, vital woman whose