Amidst all these surrounding massifs to which athletes come the woman realizes that there is no stable centre in her life, not even a recreation centre where a life of recreation might be waiting. The family can do good. But it expects to eat good food too. And to bag the quarry on feast days. The loved ones are so fond of Mother. There they all sit, together, blissful. The woman talks to her son (bacon infested with the maggots of love) and fills him with her all-pervasive low and tender shrieking. She is concerned about him. Protects him with her soft weapons. Every day he seems to die a little more, the older he becomes. The son takes no pleasure in Mother’s griping and promptly demands a present. Brief transactions such as these, transactions involving toys or sports equipment, are their way of trying to communicate. Lovingly she flings herself on her son, but even as a torrent she simply flows away, to be heard somewhere far beneath him, in the depths. And she has only this one child. Her husband comes home in from the office and instantly she hugs her body in tight so that the Man’s senses will not scent a bit of what they fancy. Music sounds forth, straight out of the baroque era and the record player. Imperative: to resemble the full-colour holiday snaps as closely as possible. Not to change, from one year to the next. There isn’t a single truthful word in this child, I swear; all he wants is to be off skiing, you take it from me.

LENNON: "It is a teacher-pupil relationship. That's what people don't understand. She's the teacher and I'm the pupil. I'm the famous one, the one who's supposed to know everything, but she's my teacher. She's taught me everything I fucking know. She was there when I was nowhere, when I was the nowhere man. She's my Don Juan." (a reference to Carlos Castaneda's Yaqui Indian teacher) "That's what people don't understand. I'm married to fucking Don Juan, that's the hardship of it. Don Juan doesn't have to laugh; Don Juan doesn't have to be charming; Don Juan just is. And what goes on around Don Juan is irrelevant to Don Juan."

: )

I woke up early just so that I could feel the morning in my veins. It’s like gravel. Nothing else really quite cuts it and that is sad in its own way. So I sit with my gravelly mornings, completely dependent on my caffeine buzz to make the world coherent. It’s like being dragged awake with gluey sleep, coma like, still clogging my insides. It’s like a violent shove. I can see the world outside from where I’m sitting and it makes me want to draw all the curtains. There isn’t enough caffeine and tobacco in the world at times to make me ready to face the day and its cheery minions. The thought of having to work makes me contemplate suicide. I should be allowed to pass the rest of my life in my sweatpants. I seriously am thinking about discontinuing my newspapers. There’s nothing I wish to read about the world, especially not this word vomit, not by people who can use hideous words such as snuck and not have it on their conscience. No one draws cherry trees or their blossoms. The world does not seem to miss these things. I have no real reason to be awake. I can’t think of a single person I’d want to talk to right now.