The Night of the Day

It is a roaming dream. The paseo around a series of sets, like a carnival or more closely a food court, where every space carries a different theme. A young lady in spangled tutu wants someone to cast her into the air. It is like a dance or partner skating move; you just toss her and she spins and lands on her feet. Some others seem to be willing to take on the task, so I make to dissolve into the progress (counterclockwise, with a base to our left of an indistinguishable wall) when her proposed assistants also fade. I make to do as she wants, and I think, just as Niki J comes into view back along the passage, I should maybe have an explanation for this, as she won’t accept the interest I take in the plight of young beauty.

Another wayside attraction is a room, and inside there is a film. I wander inside. Onscreen is a typical TV audience as you might find in an apartment complex sports party. They are in rows on a couch and sitting at the foot of it and they are all strangers of no particular distinction that I can see. Granfalloons. One has a fuzzy beard and little hair else and is rollicking, moving back and forth as if to distinguish himself. They are all relatively young. It goes on. It’s like the pictures you see of ordinary folk they sell with frames and plastic windows for holding snapshots in wallets. I conclude the present audience and the one in the film must be one and the same, which does not include me.



The Day Before

Mondays now I take Scoob to the beach. I wrote online letters. I renewed my library card (the other was ripped off in Paris), and checked out a volume of three by James M Cain, reading Double Indemnity. It was well-paced but remorseless, brutal. There is a formula to detective novels, as is the case with Romance books, yet they aren’t perceived the same by the pop media for an obvious reason.


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