Sunday, April 29, 2012


A ginger lady bent towards destruction. Flames all about yet so diffuse as to be immediately untrheatening. I am pat of the retinue. Swirls and portent; a chaos to be offset by deliberative predictable patterns of the sort which led to the present crisis in the first place. Behind in a following vehicle is Gilbert Roland, who sees he has been passed by Johnny Dark thus is in seecond place forever. He gives that resigned working class headshake, the jaw sharp to the left, and shifts to road gear. He doesn't realized he has been saved by missing the lead, for he will see the bridge out by his opponent's headlong fall into the gulch. Random association and desultory rambling lead me into an amphitheatre. It is a plaza de toros, and the animals wander in from the pasture and back out again at their leisure. A raucous crowd gathers all around the bowl. A strange character enters with a monster and colorful sombrero - which is immediately yanked from his head and begins a long leisurely frisbee route around the plaza seats. Much raoucous yelling and whistles. The sombrero goes once around, then twice, until it is somewhat the worse for wear. It reaches near its owner, then is placed on his noggin. The brim is almost entirely separated from the crown, between the which its owner looks all around in a comical and sorrowful countenance. The crowd whoops. The fire, however, gathers smoke up to the very clouds. We all scream and laugh, and the front moves ever closer.

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