Evening chit chat, Roman Polanski films, and talking to robots.

"I find more bitter than death, a woman who is a trap..."

Lauren Sevan, burning trashing in the front yard, her tongue, tired from braying like a ravening wolf, watching Roman Polanski movies were Catherine Deneuve witnesses not much but her own insanity, such that clock strikes midnight and she thinks she's being raped, awakening the morning after, naked in the floor.

Again.

We all, perhaps, within the inner and outer folds of reality, tell the tale, somewhat skewed from our witnessing, but told nonetheless in trifles and blemishes, those being rosette bruises on the pockmarked frontage of posterity.

Why, I know no surer way to read a lie, an utter falsification, than to go to the non-fiction section in the stacks, for no surer lies are better disguised as reality; in the interim I'm better entertained by the very reality that subsists in various fictions across the fruited plain, from Clio SC to East Ballantyne and all points in between, touching down briefly near Middendorf for some stone ground corn, and getting a cold tasty beverage at the little store, and then crepiscule gyrations about the ovum and the other.

F*ckstick perambulations of the mind, consorting with robots, as it were, with not much sensible people left not pried into a screen somewhere, taking witness of the elapsation, feeling, numbly, their teeth grow old, and the rest of their bodies dying, "ask alberto a question", and how really severe a waste of time it is, how inhuman, and all the prying eyes and all--how very inhuman, and I was taking once more upon the mortal coil by witnessing a drizzle, and some twenty minutes later, sun poking a nodule into the clouds, and I was human again, and realized maybe that wasn't the grandiose delusion that held my imagination so, but neither was being a robot.

She was burning trash between the front porch and the driveway, leaning in, almost burning her face to light her cigarette now and then, and tossing more styrofoam on to keep it going; it had the vague ambience of her bedroom, did the burning styrofoam, smelling of so many pasttimes and dissipations of prior years, the worse times, times to write about, and at the end, brag for surviving, after all.

But not for long, eh?  These things have a way of being taken-up by posterity and then so easily forgotten.

Flamegirl and Lauren Sevan.

I know no surer entertainment than the absolute specific gravity of the chit-chat with passers-by along the esplonade, the coming and going, from work, to restaurants, to "grandma's house", no surer talk, talk such that a few words could break lesser people's weak jaws, so they don't even try it.  As the sun dips, they come and go, some this way, some that way, and speak of the day, and that collection, that little hodgepodge scatter shot Jackson Pollock of one elapsed day tells the utterly honest tale of the day, with all the gravimetric distortion of passing by something completely important and hugely consequential.