You know me he said to indie as
indie cried displeasure at being displaced from his lap I have to refill my coffee and whisky
he was listening to Jiro Inagaki
& His Soul Medias Breeze while reading a Guardian review of Rachel Cusks
trilogy interspersed with The Smithsonians review of Edna O’Briens evil The
Little Red Chairs interspersed only in
the sense the Guardian cited O’Brien and forced his hand to remind himself why
he knew her name although why he did remained
unfound he had an OhYes I remember moment then he dawdled at the articles as a satiated babe might at his mothers breasts or
maybe at one of the breasts of his sixpak of wet nurses
Cusk confided during an interview I cannot bear having my photograph taken . .
I always think that I won’t be in it.
. . think that I wont be in it
he was at home with her remark
he no
longer had to worry photographs photographers
he knew and hung out had learned to pointed their weapons in other directions away from him they knew his disdainhis near-Indian belief that pictures could steal
your soulyour essence they didnt want to
purchase a new camera to replace one hed smash once he dashed a camera against nearly ninetydegree seismicturned
California shale after repeating himself twicewarning DONT his destruction emoted a frantic message through
the collective unconsciousthe yawning nether he heard he was also held up in posts on the
book of face and other online mediamedia
medulla oblongata fingered
a rampant automaton rather than someone with respect for themselves and guarded
their anonymity
suddenly
he was righteous noxious as notorious as a California wildfire
hed admit he was prone to
adrenaline rusheshis instincts averred or tipped his basic instinct was to fight not the green salad of fight or flight
the military might have loved to
have him but the senselessness to blindly
act on orders was beyond his comprehension commonsense rationale
he awoke restless irritable
actually he woke frustratedhis sister
died recently and she waft into his dreamsflickering like a candle in the windthen
as suddenly escaping him
he wept in his dreams
when he woke he had tears on his cheeks
he couldnt concentrate
it was asif his consciousness was
a pane of glass and had been dropped flat and broke but did not separate their edges prisms
his conscious aspect infected his
unconsciousness and sleepYes he typically had surreal nonlinear dreams but
theyd now turned on their heads gone topsyturvy insideout fractal he consisted
of shifting genders multiple sensual POVs crowding each othertalking over one
another frenetic
he suspectedknew he knew until he emotionally came to grips
with her deathhe understood death he wasnt
going to be able to staunch the deep artesian vein from which his dreams flowed
it was an odd place for him to be
he was usually very good
negotiating the labyrinths and convolutions his dreaming threw at himhe was at
home in them and able to escape without unwinding Ariadnes thread his True North compass base reckoning were useless
if he was ever ADD this was it
but his cat on his lap black
coffee and whisky helped look at him selfmedicating
though better than meds
Time
heels all wounds
1243 (usually
1234), Monday, 19 11. 18
1111, Twosday,
20 11. 18
