A reading in the Big City, crowds of people, swarms. Some writers that I knew not speaking to me, the readers themselves speaking out of turn, jostling, sometimes fists. Return home to D., who pulls two full bottles of booze, from a giant vending machine. I was hoping for rum but they're a Serbian strong liquour and a bottle of whisky. Don't like either, but he tries to make me drink them.
Semi-Famous Writer rings our door, blackmails us w/ a tape of what she's seen. Everything on the tape is hyper-coloured, sweats with life. It grows larger-than. He is devastated and angry, pulling apart seams. I am pragmatic, erase tape from her digital camera, acknowledge there are other copies sent somewhere, feel certainty, dread. Give her back her things: digital camera, computer, etc. I tell her it was nice to meet her. That I'm sorry. SFW becomes concerned at this point, tries to keep me from leaving, wants to help. She can't.
Go upstairs to lie down, because now I'm in a tower, with endless steps, at the top, with no roof, only the bed and this wickedly huge blue sky. A sextuplet of rainbows. I look at them and know what it means. I curl up on the bed and wait for what I know is coming.
Reflections on publicity
1 week ago