Rhythms of me run easy between the library and home. Bodily energy low, attributable to disordered sleep and too much wheat/sweets while in Vienna; otherwise I'm present, comfortable, distracted only in minor keys by digestion of the tight grain of my time with cousin X. Having been away, things here seem uglier, lovelier, easier – lovelier in the sense of being well-inhabited by love, easier in the sense of how a used car can be advertised as having an "easy nose". My affection for this pleasantly ugly cityscape, the loveliness of Rina, Belmondo's nose.
Cousin X set me onto my flight home with a volume of stories published this year in Vostoni Massahousseti, EEUU. They're written by one Heman Chase, some greek, an acquaintance of hers, which is usually code for lover. Excellent stories, drawing things down through me like how breath-yoga does; a great flake to have taken home with me of the brilliance of X's milieu. The title story, "Ils Faisaient du Foin Grec," opens like this: "There, in the dim light, the addicts of chainii grib's productions; eschewing food, stomachs afizz with the acids and answers that are the gentle harvest of their beloved bacteria-yeast complex, these long-thighed gentlemen saunter happily through the mornings of the world..."