My colleague is still missing in Central America. His family has taken an us vs. them mentality with the police that has become factually obstructive. I think he's probably dead but if he isn't, I can't think of anything much less useful than that. But you know what, he's my colleague, not my brother, and if they want to be assholes about it, there's not much I can do besides fucking weep and flag to the authorities that I'll be forthcoming as I can if they question friends and extended family. They probably won't. I hope they don't. I know what I think is right but at the same time I don't like the image of myself colluding with a Central American police force against a grieving family, which is how it will be perceived by said family and by that part of my brain which is all "fuck the po-po".
Part of what is distressing in these situations, I've discovered, beyond the horrible grief and the gnawing worry and the absolute lack of control and other people, is one's own brain.
Other than that, I'm on the home stretch with Daniel Deronda. Still ripping and not a single disappointment so far, beyond the let-down of Mordecai's big life-vision that he needed to share and bequeath to Daniel being Zionism. That was probably more earth-shaking at the time that Eliot was writing but I felt a bit let down. I was hoping for unicorns, or some magical mystery truth of some sort. Oh well.