Oh, I wrote “paper” on my arm—I think that was about how really all I was getting from the Recorder’s office (and from every other source) was that it’s really not the paper I need but the info from it (which info can be digitized, of course). The old documents—some of the thick papers (the linen finish of the 1872 map—and why so many blank pages?) are neat, but I don’t know. Maybe there was a better point last night when I write “paper” on my arm—or maybe it was half-baked even then.
Ah, well. So, it’s Thanksgiving. I’m alive. M’s door-opening sound I just heard, then floor creaks, then carpet-scuffles, then M’s sigh. I’ve been writing her sounds, and not looking at her but peripherally—she came and kissed my neck.
[From journal of Thurs., 23 Nov. 2017, Journal 263, page 105-6]
MonkeyMoonMachine 