For the longest time, there was construction @ the Jones Blvd./Russell Rd intersection, but t’was a mystery as to who the new tenant would be. Time wore on, and work trucks pushed around the cat litter that is characteristic of vacant lots in Las Vegas. Eventually, the structure began taking shape.
A car wash, I thought? A Jack in the Box? My less cynical side considered the possibility of professional offices, since there were pockets of those in the vicinity.
Finally, a sign recently announced the new occupant in large letters: 7-Eleven COMING SOON! So after countless months of waiting, everyone was pleased to know that there really is a Godot.
Made every effort to avoid my housemate.
Spent most of the day in bed reading, drinking espresso and writing.
I did make a quick run to the bookstore to analyze the difference between Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast as originally published vs. the so-called “restored” edition. I found out the restored edition is largely a sham, with uninteresting filler to aid in the marketing ploy. Filler included a long-winded intro, images of Hemingway’s handwritten notes and a section dedicated to his revision process, which was an absurd addition.
Made popcorn and grilled cheese, as well as an omelet with broccoli, onion & parmesan. Spent 5 hrs in the morning doing chores & errands.
Started a Goodreads account at goodreads.com/cassandra_k.
JS Bach piano sonatas, where the dance across the keys is a carefree & confident one; where notes are like bubbles in champagne during gala conversation. I am happiest with Bach, where nothing could go wrong, tho I do fancy being happily drunk on mimosas to Chopin’s piano impromptu No. 1 in A-flat major, Op. 29.
Speaking of which, today’s theme has been oranges, or in general, citrus. I spotted images of oranges all day, and then there was talk of rainfall and orange groves with a friend over a lunch of Thai food, after which orange wedges were served as dessert.
The restaurant host (I assume this was his role) was a very formal man and was well-dressed (in all black) but had the pallid air of a mortician. I was reminded of Peter Lorre, where no matter how amiable he behaved, he still came off as if he were plotting gruesome murder. The waitresses, meanwhile, wore cheerful maroon jumpsuits with golden-yellow flourishes and spoke to each other in their native language. Continue reading
A waffle would be nice a waffle w/ hot melting butter & maple syrup is good in winter log cabin/greatgrandma’s house soft rug cold cat nose reruns of daytime soaps auntie L watching intently on the sofa Debussy grilledcheese/coffee&cake /reassurance a lift home laughter/gamesofcardsforpennies homemadestruffoli/&/tenderpanettone easy chair&ottomen greatgrandma/mom&dadhappy/me/sister/brother/cousins sandwiches after dinner cordials+cookies long/Sundays & then three flights of stairs down in noisy musty hallway w/ eternal aroma of boiled broccoli and potatoes then home.
Black coffee in espresso cup resting on saucer atop secondhand book purchased for 25¢. In bed I continue reading Allen Ginsberg’s Planet News. Morning outside: the sun struggles against the clouds. Reminded of Whitman while reading. Reminded of proclamations, with Ginsberg’s text stretching from end to end on page after page. Reminded of Ferlinghetti, with text drizzling downward in thin stacks.
I love the word “strata.” Powerful considering its compactness and all it implies.
I dislike “tethered” because it is contrived. Who do you know who can say it without reprisal?
An age cutoff should apply for the slang “any-who.” Adults who use it should be embarrassed. It is cute only if you are 9.
Destitute for the brush of Bacon, who will depict you in some shunga scrolls. A statue from the Orient with no mind. Your eye shadow the flush tones of Dali. Wedding cake of a face, you sweeten the leaf of Arches. The bugs are dancing beneath your lamp like at a disco.
Sushi as an aesthetic pleasure. Sushi as status symbol. Sushi as art form.
Bluefin tuna doomed. Salmon spoken for. Mackeral and halibut had it. Sea urchin and sardine goners.
My ink spills like whale blood. Embattled octopus.
I hear a phone that is not answered. I listen for some time. The ringtone trails off and seems to leave an echo in my brain.
Where is the owner of the phone. Is he/she still alive. Has something gone wrong or are they merely indisposed.
This might be an important call…
- it’s your boss
- it’s your angry spouse
- it’s your worried mother
- it’s debt collections
- it’s your broke friend
Who calls rather than texts anyhow.
I linger for some time to see how it plays out. Like looking at an empty, banged-up vehicle. Resting by a lamppost after a crash.