From the London Diaries

If you want a friend, captivate me!

They dismissed me from the 'romantic clothing' store, thank God, very much for the good, for now I'll go sing in the streets with my comrade D'Anjou. Precisely this Friday night, when the moon will be ejaculating aquariums replete with oxygen and wisdom. Sing 'Circle Game' and 'It Ain't Me, Babe'.

Before that, yesterday, behind that counter still, in-the-boredom, I winked my parakeet eyes and just like that a draft went on being scribbled, about a special dinner, that is, reuniting dear specimens of humans, a reunion to mix their contents, their contours, to exale all of that above the meal and then it is all supernatural food, on a table our-theirs-yours, in the wooden saloon of the Airship.

There-us:

All at table, John Fahey blows his nose, says this one is called View... View from the... It's called View East from the — Estela do Patrocínio crosses him, View East West North South is our name ...from the B&O railway viaduct... and the Riggs Road intersection. And he goes on strumming, finger-styling, harpy eagle or real royal American primitive eagle, which makes Ursula K. Le Guin think

in the Archeology of the Future and her dad and she side-smiles and notes down anything.

Across the table, who, Simone Weil and João Guimarães Rosa converse quietly, the peculiarest acquaintance, and about-what no-one-ever. Whilst at one end of the table the cat Guillaume-en-Egypt, with Chris Marker all-in-leather on his lap, stares fixedly at their dialogue, auscultating everything, time to time nodding.

The air wanders the wooden saloon quickly, touches the lines on the walls and makes a sound as if from a guitar, entering through the round copper windows, entering through the clouds outside, not a high-sea, indeed a flyby.

Joni Mitchell asks Jonas Mekas for fire, who, having in one hand a handycam, fumbles himself trying to check both pockets, while Clarice Lispector also reaches out, in the tips of her paws, her cigarette to be lit. Them both attended, he then discreetly scratches every-face with his lenses, and after that points it to the table center: where we have:

Lamb tagine, beetroot risotto, and nuts-various

and fresh peppers all-colours, and black carrots and turnips and sake-various.

Emily Dickinson completely dissociates — to the where. Werner Herzog, delicate, pokes her; offers to serve her with water (we have also water, in the heights-of-here, we've a lot), which she accepts with gravity and grace.

John Lurie, smelling of fish and old saxophone-saliva, throwing paper balls at Joan Baez's plate, Joan already kinda drunk, already turning her personality upside down, putting the balls into her mouth.

Then gull-shouts. (Who did it?) A shadow leaves the room to do the rounds, and when the door re-opens there comes from the deck an absurd light, blinding everyone for a few minutes a silence with no senses: a spectacle.

Sights regained, an illogical spotlight falls on Annemarie Schwarzenbach who's glancing greyly at every-one. Roberto Bolaño stares blackly at her. Wanted to... Feline vision of hers catches it Leather glove of hers raises her glass:

At last a toast to:

First you will sit down at a little distance from me — like that — in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye and you will say nothing. Words are the sources of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me every day...

Now we may eat, appreciated. Hour of cows, of rumination punctuated by onomatopoeias. Subjects the mid-betweens, and directions the-all, but in the delicacy of not disturbing the attention from the life of the food.

Agnès Varda compliments Carolina Maria de Jesus' dress-of-stars. Carolina Maria thanks her with stellar dignity, and starts to talk of mountains and green prairies that neighbour her house.

Oh, me? As one sees — saying a lot without a word saying, looking-writing them, and with le chien terrible on my little-lap, sleeping deeply.

Alright-alright-alright...: what do I feel? asked me Lua without the asking, sitting next to me, only for reasons of literary critique having observed abstraction-dryness-impersonality observing what I feel: an absence of trial, a doing solely, under and above the sheets, and within the fabric's weft. A calm. It's a feeling, this, can one call? No rationalising. A calm. A certainty which lives together with every doubt. Faith? Friendship — I say, ties made deep but ties that don't bind. Unclinging spiritual affinity, spontaneous relationship, biggest honour in the company of whom, and refuse it to be worthy of receiving it; of the category of Grace... What unites us: our being many suns revolving around each other while we also spin.

Suddenly the slide of a high note Death of The Clayton Peacock and other-door opens abruptly

Ezra Pound: who worked in the cabin above (arguing with Pier Paolo Pasolini): says: chih chih

Let the wind speak

And all awake-agree. The ship's rust roars, the tails of all the cats aboard creak.

Who pilots: comrade Olaudo, gentle monster (a childhood imaginary-friend). Pilots in zigzags, but this being ar not water, we do not sicken.

On the mast lands the Secretary: has manifested new land. There-go...