31st
This morning I found something irresistible on the beach.
Not a commercial for an amusement park ride, that carried one passenger past a rapid sequence of Dali and Deitch images; or a Carter-era one-liner. (Like, what is it but crotch?) Or a beautifully lit Arthurian romance or its pink “other side.” (Pirates.)
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The ultimate fantasy is to write about a fantasy, because fantasy is measurably quantum indeterminate: when you are conscious of fantasy as fantasy, it changes; it rejects measurement.
But what happens to it? Where does it go? Unlike Shroedinger’s cat, it is not penned in a steel cage.
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The components of a fantasy are in debit to memory; drawn from prior experience, memory, sound, sight. (At least in part.) In this regard is fantasy not a means of disguising a familiar experience and repressing it?
But when a fantasy is amplified beyond a critical point it becomes manifest, and then repressed itself; replaced by a physical symptom, like desperate travel, or writing about a fantasy.
What was it that I found irresistible? The impulse to humble my fantasy before myself; disclose it to JC Kollmorgen (or a beautiful exotic stranger); radically interrupt myself in desperate travel and writing about a fantasy.
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(Rick and George make this joke whenever they notice that a scene has been set in a paradisaical or tropical landscape; their next movie is going to be set in the Bahamas.)
