Sunday, December 14, 2003

A pretty lissome coral, or maybe a garter, coils serenely about my arm. I think of inhaling her as a sort of practice, as spaghetti, and then am lurched into an epiphany by her fervent avoidance, just as I might have done to save me. I am abashed and begin to consider other existence than my own as having place…

A plain woman, dark, brings an auto in front and carries a bag. She approaches listlessly, like an inept sales force for a forgotten lost enterprise. She is offering news left out of the regular paper, culls, and she gives us the weekly, monthly, annual price, with is $5,000. I am surprised that Niki J accepts, although I have no real sense of economy in my dreams. Five grand for news not fit to print? We sign up. The dark saleslady does not seem too surprised or overly pleased. Guess she isn't on commission.

I am working the track for a race. The competitors are off-stage, maybe bikes, maybe open-wheel spider racers. The question is the weights used to hold the bales at the corners. They should be weightier, I say. There are films of the competitors, and they mill about the bales at end of race, drawing up the weights, which are in discrete units, like on barbells but large and V-shaped. "V-bolts," smiles my associate, who is in charge of the track.

My own position is not given.

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