Something about this whole thing smells fishy to me…

Ew.

JF: hey how’s it going?

I’m reading this story in the New York Times right now about a member of the Carnegie family who lives on a tiny, isolated, most likely wind-swept island up in Maine and wrote a book about her family’s history of mental illness.  Her daughter, pseudonym Sandra, now 55, first diagnosed with schizophrenia and then with BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) also lives on the island.  Excerpt:

[The author of the book] discovered Jungian analysis and Transcendental Meditation and stopped speaking to her own father, though he lived, until his death, in a house within view of hers. He was, she has come to believe, as ill in his own way as Lucy, who was as ill as Sandra. In time, Sandra married, had two children and then divorced. Now 55, she has a house on Crescent Island, and the company of a companion hired by her parents.

The person I’m MOST interested in, based upon this excerpt, is the paid companion.  What is that like?  Do they just hang out, or is her BPD so bad Sandra needs to be taken care of?  What kind of melancholy does she (I’m assuming it’s a female) face on those chilly New England island nights?

So I’m going on a last minute trip abroad and am frantically trying to prepare, but wanted to share these random notes I found scribbled in the back of my copy of Harold Pinter: the Complete Works Volume III
Jenny Holzer: “I personally killed a child.”

Female personnel at Gitmo wet hands and touch prisoners to make them feel “unclean”

Francis Bacon, in a letter 1954: “It is about dreams and life in hotel bedrooms.”
Hm.  Wonder what kind of head space I was in then…