Someone had written a scathing review of my book, saying that it was "un libro sin ton ni son." [without rhyme or reason]. I was planning my response. I wasn't particularly upset about it and was seeing the humor in the situation.
I was looking forward to a concert by Keith Jarrett. But walking out of the concert, I realized I had not heard a note he played. Had I slept through it? (Literally, I had, since I was dreaming.) As we were walking out I said something about how brilliant he was, and then realized he was stranding right there. He was talking to us about a Pat Matheny concert that would happen in the evening, but there was some doubt about it, because of some legal issue.
I was supposed to read some poems aloud, but I didn't have any with me, so I decided to write a new one. It began: "My life is so disgusting / it makes me want to throw up." I thought that was a good start. People sitting next to me were practicing a country-music type song with guitars and I ask them to be quiet so I could write. I didn't have anything to write on, so I thought of asking someone for a piece of paper.
My niece had exploded a bomb in the closet of my Mom's house (her grandmother). It didn't do much damage, and I was trying to help her cover up the crime, by saying things like "I'm sure the police will be dusting for prints..." She did not seem overly concerned, though, and it seemed like my Mom was not going to call the police any way. There was no motive for the bomb, and no explanation of why it exploded but did no damage.
Theme: the mind finding creative solutions to malaise.
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