conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'Reaching Tin River'?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Reaching Tin River
  I must stand by those wind-whistled walls of rotting log and slab and sniff out the earliest presence of the child before his family moved to the Condamine.
  My mind wanders as I drive. On my zoom return from visiting my own lost daddy, I was waiting in La Guardia for my flight to Los Angeles watching another wilting pair of travelers weaving their own enclosed space. They were young but not too young. Late twenties. I related to that. I looked up from dropping a chocolate wrapper in a bin to surprise them in an eye-dive with each other that was embarrassing in its depth. I say embarrassing but then, somehow, it became comforting in its exposure of tenderness. It was genuine, wasn't it, if only for that half minute? It hit the center didn't it, if only for one second? Like Huck's sudden smile in the all-night diner or the feel of my mouth on his cheek? One moment of sincerity can pose itself proudly beside years of hypocrisy and gain grace.
  The two. She was mousy, drab. Her skirt was an impossible muddy blue and too long. Her shoes were flat, and brown. The cardigan that looked home-knitted (Bonnie, you would have loved it) was in synthetic lavender fiber, cable stitch. Her eyes clung the longer. Oh how they clung! He was patting her hand, tender at this point of departure, and when I saw this I had to look away. It was hard to look away. When I dared return my eyes to them, and they were still oblivious of me, his patting paw had removed itself from hers and now rested on and encircled his other wrist which he held with such heartbreaking tenderness I feared for that drab skirt and cardigan.
  When the call came to board, the young woman walked ahead of me and took a seat in front of mine in a silence more lavender than her cable-stitch. She was to be spared nothing for immediately an overfleshed poncho wearer, breathy and wheezing, slid into the seat beside her, snuffled wetly and belched. "Oh pardon me," he begged the air. He sang quietly, as if in cynical self-parody, "Oh pardon me, pardon me." I could see by the utter stillness of the young woman's head that, while I cringed from the antisocial noises, she had not even glanced in his direction, so impaled was she on her central point of love and departure. Poncho reached up and pressed the call button. "May I have some Kleenex?" he asked the hostess softly and winningly. "I have this very heavy cold." He proved he had this heavy cold and the hostess drew herself fastidiously backwards and went off to the galley. When she returned she handed him the tissues with a fully extended arm making its criticism plain and I could have laughed at that and even at the revolting sound of nasal clearing that followed were it not for the unmoving wounded posture of the woman at his side. He acted as if the seat next to him were vacant. I guess it was if we accept that physical presence means nothing in the absence of the spirit. Poncho spoke to himself, soothingly. She did not stir. He began humming, humming and talking alternately, ignoring the meals placed before him, the withdrawn body at his side.
  After we touched down at Los Angeles he swung away into space at the terminal with the frightening lightness, the weightlessness, of fat men that has its own menace while Blue Skirt, cumbered by her very lack of weight, lugged her bag with an effort over to the schedule screen and began peering astigmatically. I longed to speak, to comfort, to say anything at all.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about tortured.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Reaching Tin River
  I must stand by those wind-whistled walls of rotting log and slab and sniff out the earliest presence of the child before his family moved to the Condamine. 
  My mind wanders as I drive. On my zoom return from visiting my own lost daddy, I was waiting in La Guardia for my flight to Los Angeles watching another wilting pair of travelers weaving their own enclosed space. They were young but not too young. Late twenties. I related to that. I looked up from dropping a chocolate wrapper in a bin to surprise them in an eye-dive with each other that was embarrassing in its depth. I say embarrassing but then, somehow, it became comforting in its exposure of tenderness. It was genuine, wasn't it, if only for that half minute? It hit the center didn't it, if only for one second? Like Huck's sudden smile in the all-night diner or the feel of my mouth on his cheek? One moment of sincerity can pose itself proudly beside years of hypocrisy and gain grace. 
  The two. She was mousy, drab. Her skirt was an impossible muddy blue and too long. Her shoes were flat, and brown. The cardigan that looked home-knitted (Bonnie, you would have loved it) was in synthetic lavender fiber, cable stitch. Her eyes clung the longer. Oh how they clung! He was patting her hand, tender at this point of departure, and when I saw this I had to look away. It was hard to look away. When I dared return my eyes to them, and they were still oblivious of me, his patting paw had removed itself from hers and now rested on and encircled his other wrist which he held with such heartbreaking tenderness I feared for that drab skirt and cardigan. He had a gently tortured face, like my father's I kept thinking, a face that would move women to excesses of sentiment. 
  When the call came to board, the young woman walked ahead of me and took a seat in front of mine in a silence more lavender than her cable-stitch. She was to be spared nothing for immediately an overfleshed poncho wearer, breathy and wheezing, slid into the seat beside her, snuffled wetly and belched. "Oh pardon me," he begged the air. He sang quietly, as if in cynical self-parody, "Oh pardon me, pardon me. " I could see by the utter stillness of the young woman's head that, while I cringed from the antisocial noises, she had not even glanced in his direction, so impaled was she on her central point of love and departure. Poncho reached up and pressed the call button. "May I have some Kleenex?" he asked the hostess softly and winningly. "I have this very heavy cold. " He proved he had this heavy cold and the hostess drew herself fastidiously backwards and went off to the galley. When she returned she handed him the tissues with a fully extended arm making its criticism plain and I could have laughed at that and even at the revolting sound of nasal clearing that followed were it not for the unmoving wounded posture of the woman at his side. He acted as if the seat next to him were vacant. I guess it was if we accept that physical presence means nothing in the absence of the spirit. Poncho spoke to himself, soothingly. She did not stir. He began humming, humming and talking alternately, ignoring the meals placed before him, the withdrawn body at his side. 
  After we touched down at Los Angeles he swung away into space at the terminal with the frightening lightness, the weightlessness, of fat men that has its own menace while Blue Skirt, cumbered by her very lack of weight, lugged her bag with an effort over to the schedule screen and began peering astigmatically. I longed to speak, to comfort, to say anything at all.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is two more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Abandoning this decade, this century, I move forward from the fence, telling myself and that watching wavering group that I am about to join them.
  I lengthen my stride to trot, to sprint, running faster than time until I am hurtling forward up the veranda steps and hurling myself bodily through my paper hosts, making sure it is Mrs. Lockyer I obliterate, and I am gaspingly through beyond their startled faces to the other side in an empty room whose walls and floors bear the injuries of absence.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I am sitting in the most southern room on the upstairs veranda and it is empty of everything but me. Below in the roadway, my car is parked reflecting the sun. The trunk has been emptied of the chip heater which the old man freighted to mother a fortnight ago. That means it will reach her soon.
  I sent one to mother explaining where I was and within days I received a card back saying, "What a good idea, darling. Have a lovely holiday."
  As well as to mother, I have posted cards to my workplace, my father, Boobs McAvoy, Seb and old Mr. Emptied out.
  There were explanatory and apologetic notes for grandson Lockyer and Boobs. I don't think they will understand the symbolism of the circle for they are better equipped to appreciate the significance of the infinite line. But on the cards I sent to my father and Seb, beyond the circle and the lost point, I wrote nothing except my name.
  I don't really expect replies from either of them; but I know they will understand the symbol. Or I think they will.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Lockyer, Jericho, Flats, returned.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I am sitting in the most southern room on the upstairs veranda and it is empty of everything but me. Below in the roadway, my car is parked reflecting the sun. The trunk has been emptied of the chip heater which the old man freighted to mother a fortnight ago. That means it will reach her soon. 
  I sent one to mother explaining where I was and within days I received a card back saying, "What a good idea, darling. Have a lovely holiday. "
  As well as to mother, I have posted cards to my workplace, my father, Boobs McAvoy, Seb and old Mr. Lockyer at Jericho Flats to whom I also returned all diaries and photographs. Emptied out. 
  There were explanatory and apologetic notes for grandson Lockyer and Boobs. I don't think they will understand the symbolism of the circle for they are better equipped to appreciate the significance of the infinite line. But on the cards I sent to my father and Seb, beyond the circle and the lost point, I wrote nothing except my name. 
  I don't really expect replies from either of them; but I know they will understand the symbol. Or I think they will.