I didn’t have my camera. On Van Brunt Street in Red Hook: a pair of high boots stuffed with some kind of pale foam that was stained red in the center, looking like a pair of legs amputated in harness at the knee. Halloween never ends in some parts of Brooklyn. Cf. Lovecraft’s, “The Horror Out of Red Hook.”
The small but very blue eyes of the woman giving me two-dollar bills in change in LaNell’s. I forgot they made those back in ‘76. I don’t think that that long drink of water selling me a bottle of Sicilian Grillo had been born yet.
I finished Durrell’s Bitter Lemons. Lush, chauvinistic, and melancholy; about his time on Cyprus as the Brits were being thrown out. My man Paddy Fermor shows up to wow the locals with his renditions of Greek folksongs. Ill met by moonlight indeed.
Set up a date with the Ceramist for Monday. She found me on Nerve.