27 February 2008. Web of clouds from west, intermixed with blue. Nicola this morning, darting across kitchen floor, stopping, looking up. "You're the man..." But wait, she never said a word, all by feline implication--feminine, that is, the tilt of a head, a lifted brow. "Breakfast would be good." Folded bag top with giant paper clamp, some newfangled plastic sheeting, opens to miles of kibble--Science Diet--only the best.
A white table cloth, the Biltmore Hotel, 1960 or so. Clothing Show. Clothiers. Rooms as booths, individual brands--trying to recall the names, their mercantile reality. Short sleeve suits, yes, with Nehru collars, gabardine and plaid. The Ernst tie. Stacy Adams, long narrow leather foot sleeves, intricately worked, each stitch a resolute advertisement of the individual self. Long ago. Sixth Street and Spring, the park, warm mornings with LA light, a pigeon or two, wheeling, wheeling...
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