Seeing this little thread here [in the fold between pages 176-177] reminds me that I made this book by hand back in Illinois and now here it is, in a place where I could toss it into waters of the Gulf of Mexico—and that’s not deep, unless maybe it is, in that it’s surprising sometimes how quickly I (and my handmade books) can move—at 70 miles, 75, 80 miles per hour down the interstate. (About 8:15, M texted me. I texted back that she could meet me, or I her.) And yet, of course, it’s never all that surprising, because I am where I find myself, where I find myself when I wake—awake—to the present moment, when I become self-conscious, or just conscious of surroundings, which surroundings I kinda become less conscious of as I get engaged in writing.
Maybe the taller woman isn’t a mom but is another daughter?
A woman shows up carrying a bike helmet (“shows up”—sh!t, verbs remain inadequate, you know?).
Damn, it is nice to look north and see the bay (?)—near the Quietwater Beach—and the Marina, to the west and northwest, all the elevated bridge on which, over which we drove to get here. There was a $1 toll once we got to this island (M said bring her back vanilla latte—I asked for another 20 minutes.) Woman with bike helmet is back and is sitting outside with a book and maybe a journal.
[From journal of Tues., 21 June 2016, at Drowsy Poet cafe, Pensacola Beach, Fla., Journal 230, page 176-7]
MonkeyMoonMachine 