Already it’s 5:33, sh!t, 5:34. A moment is no-time. There are no moments. What there may be is crystallizations of one’s consciousness, a crystallizing around one idea.
P__ lives near N__—cousins who ended up living near each other.
Just read the ___ profile in Esquire, and it’s less vapid than most profiles but still plenty vapid. But what can you write about someone who’s famous for being a lovely object—and a voice, he mentions her voice—and he talks about basically each moment of her actions (I just said moments aren’t real) so that she must’ve felt like she was acting for him. …
For some dream reason (which is to say, no reason at all?), I dreamed I was back in the old house at __—gone now, it can exist only in my dreams—but I was in my old room upstairs, headboard between the two windows on west wall
(M said ____ is a jerk at court but people let him walk up to the judge because they wanna be done quickly with their biz with him. M said she and others joked about a program to “Be __ For a Day”—be a jerk for a day, basically)
[From journal of Thurs. 17 Ockt. 2013, Journal 187, page 23-4]
MonkeyMoonMachine 