Sunday

I'm in bed with books and movies of a hot August sunday. The Lake today abundantly Oakland/Lake Merritt-like. I woke up thinking, what's the opposite of absence makes the heart grow fonder? Familiarity breeds Contempt. I felt some of that in a sequence of recent hours.

The books I'm in bed with: The Golden Bowl, Alcools, Donald Judd's Complete Writings, Marxism & Poetry, The Voice Impersonator. The movies are The Pianist, Andrei Rublev, The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant. I'd rather have the first few episodes of Weeds, but this is what Netflix has deemed for my hot August-in-Sunday. The windows are open. Once I was diagnosed with an 18th c. malaise, Exhaustion, and sentenced to my bed for five days no leaving. Elise Ficarra brought me fruit. This afternoon I am self-sentencing: of the bed, and no leaving.

I read about the 700 pound man who was once the 1200 pound man; he has recently taken a vacation.

Someday a church more massive than the Vatican. I've been to the top of St. Peter's, friends.