Saturday. A sunny, clear, cold start to the day, no complaints, attitude good now that I've returned from the usual place after breakfast. Today is the day to visit Wilson, see how he's doing, come hell or high water. Break through my San Francisco phobia, my driving over the bridge phobia, my interminable whining about bouncing around with these phobias. No, really. Really.
Later. A long conversation with Wilson, not unlike conversations we've had in the past, more like a series of riffs, really, than a straightforward talk where sentences follow sentences, one linear idea after another in rigid in the gird order, but a conversation, none the less, where logic prevails and questions are asked and answered. “So what have you been up to?” Nothing much, I said. Vegetating. Thinking maybe of moving. “Moving won't do any good, you'll just find yourself sitting in the same place you were when you started”. Indeed.
I found him in the dining room sitting alone at a table eating lunch when I arrived, he saying hello, we talking as he finished what seemed to have been a substantial meal. Definitely Wilson, an understanding from what he was saying that he knew what it was he was going through (currently having vivid dreams, surprising in their intensity, the idea they're probably his subconscious putting things back in order making sense to him) and then, after maybe an hour of talking at the table, we returned to his room, he then putting a few things in a plastic bag asking if he could borrow a couple of bucks for the bus.
Now, when I was last there he was going through a similar get up out of bed, pack his stuff and head for the door routine, but there'd been no hour of rational conversation beforehand. “Ah, you're one of the jailers too”. You know they won't let you leave, Wilson, and they won't let me let you leave. Maybe he became tired after an hour's conversation, slipped out of gear? Makes sense. I asked one of the attendants if I should leave, if my presence for over an hour was too tiring, but he said no, he seemed calmer with me there, better that I stayed.
So he's better than he was the last time I visited before Christmas, more of the Wilson of old, but the situation is still not good. I had over two hours with him to get a feeling for what's happening, what I'm seeing confirming L's observations: the improvement substantial since my last visit, but he has much further to go; who knows how much further he can go, is capable of going.
Again, his mood was good, nothing seemed to upset him, even when he realized he wasn't going to be able to leave; the room he's in rather nice, actually, a place an artist could live quite comfortably if they had a front door key and didn't have a partner who's got to be more than a little worried at the moment.
Later still. Some plans to sample a bottle of Absinthe with Ms. T sometime later this month, a chance to see what she's been up to with her photography, me jealous of all the studio work she's been doing. Maybe it will get me to not only pick up, but actually use one of these cameras.