I’ve been trying to ease her into certain things, but she doesn’t remember me running the 2000 election, nor does she seem to think I had any experience for my first job.
We needn’t talk about fisting here, but it’s crucial to the past 17 years of my life, to my detriment.
We were at dinner tonight … nice place, great Caesar dressing, and it became apparent that she, at 79, doesn’t at all remember why the fuck I didn’t just get into journalism but accepted it as my life.
She seems to now think it’s random that I worked at the paper, sted “Holy fuck, I didn’t know what love was.”
I’ve got a couple of things prepared for our drive tomorrow, but she seems oblivious to what made me who I am.
As someone who’s done a fair share of reporting, I know how to steer a conversation. The baffling portion is what the starting point should be.
I did download to my phone a NotebookLM analysis of how I got into journalism for the drive up from Tucson. After having to pause repeatedly to explain that we were not listening to real people (“OK, so the guy is real, but the woman is AI?” “No, it’s all generated.” “But they sound like real people, and they’re specifically addressing me.” “Because my prompt was ‘explain to my mom how my neurodivergence clarifies my life choices for a car ride to Phoenix tomorrow.’” The first time they mentioned her, she was very confused as to how I had audio describing the situation she was currently experiencing.), she did in fact say “Oh …” a few times.