an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

. . . day after christmas (week six, winter break)


My stepdad said: I don't know anybody in town who does that anymore except maybe the little old man on the corner of seventh if he's still alive. I showed up with my boots in need of caps and stood waiting in the smell of leather and oil by the glass counter filled with creased oiled shoes. What you need, the old man said. I held up my boots. I'll have to do both okay: he made a note on half an index card licked the end of his ballpoint: you pick them up when? Well I'm leaving the thirtieth I'm from out of town so by then you think--? He pulled out his wallet, a thin worn snakeskin fold of soft bills, said you want them now or tomorrow, that's all. Now or tomorrow. I close at six. You pay now or tomorrow okay. Ten ninety-five. Okay.


"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers