DREAMING, RECOVERING , WAKING, REDREAMING, REAWAKENING ... what is when when this is now?
After a seemingly incredibly long night during which my loud thinking repeatedly awakened me I sit here at close to 6pm wondering what to make of it all. Famous faces, vacuous spaces all spinning through my mind. What can I give voice to in the darkness? It is sunset now. The sun is vanishing and all of us here must survive throughout the long night.
Thank God for electric lighting!!
Laundretta did a little more tantrum-giving. One time when I opened the front door to her when she had lost Matran's key for the zillionth time she (& why on earth did she do this?!?) "offered me out" for a fight!! Something to do with her drunken gurglings ... she thought I somehow took issue with her ... or cared about her sozzled brain's shortcircuited connexions. I stepped over her and told her not to mistake me for someone who gave a sh--.
Mother Hubbard was going ape this morning because she couldn't score. Pascal saved the day, offering to purchase a weighed amount with her money. So I came with him to a vulgar house. Crackhouse might be the word the newspapers would use for it. Three black early twentysomethings sitting round a breakfast table having their breakfast. Only food did not come into it. Breakfast for them came in white smokey form: crack cocaine. And one of them, perhaps the biggest one in there, with particularly rampant afro hair outgrowings and the pastiest pallid face turned out upon our leaving actually to be a woman!!
I'm glad I brought a newspaper with me to that place. Not only did it kill the boredom of sitting in someone else's "crack"house nonrentpaid virtual squat (and I'm sure that's what it was, somewhere the landlord was being strung out for as long as he possibly could be for no rent at all...) but avoided my making eyecontact with any of these people who thought they were so ... well, not cool but so whatever they thought they were ... and basically gave me a mental teleport outta that situation. I'm getting old now. Too old for situations like that.
At long last, nearly an hour later, Pascal's friend's friend eventually showed up with this heroin and we made good our escape. I couldn't help but wonder, as we walked out, who those young people were, how they made their money, what they thought they were doing and where they were all going in life. Sometimes it's so much easier to focus those questions on somebody else.
Am I making any sense in an otherwise nonsensical day? O what am I saying? The day has gone past. Evening is come. Tomorrow shall arise as predicted.
I have nothing to latch on to. Nothing IS as predicted. Does that make any sense to you. Does that make any sense?
I want to lie down. And then unconsciousness takes away the time. And dreams knit together what remains of reality into fables. Simple as. Simple.
If only life was that straightforward!
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