8:30 am and already that unwelcome pressure in the stomach. Down to the nearest restroom and slam down the commode lid with the sole of my shoe. Disappointment - a thick, glistening string of jissom across the top of the seat. Long walk to the next restroom. Pass through the hotel lobby when....
Think: the power of music to paint memories with the most shameless stock associations. Garbage sentimentalism - like cake frosting on a turd. An old Norah Jones tune. Not my type of music, but still, that very first time I heard it....
Coney Island, Brooklyn. Avenue X. An oversized, superannuated ferris-wheel. She (name and description are irrelevant in these things)tells me her mother's an old, displaced Russian Jew who tries to keep up with the times by hanging out with queers and hipsters in the village; pretends to like ethnic comedians and such. I can't stop looking at that damn ferris wheel. It's got a psychic hold over me - trying to figure out eloquent-sounding things to say about it. Years later, I realized that she made love like a woman twice her age. Them big-city girls sure do mature fast. I mean, by the time they turn nineteen...
The tyranny of memory. Me and Proust should have madeleine-cakes together and go into rhapsodies over that sort of thing...dithyrambic, blow-fueled frenzies.
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