Last night I dreamed I was at a cushy seaside resort with David Foster Wallace. At one point, he was handing out presents to everyone and he gave me a notebook - one of those lined composition types. When I opened it, I found color vacation shots of DFW relaxing by the pool and sitting at various tables in the restaurant. All were in fairly extreme close-up, so the frame was filled with either his head or shots of his arms extending out of the frame. These photos had an over-exposed quality to them, so invariably DFW was always washed out or in the center of some serious flash resonance. Of course there was writing. Not on every page. More like randomly distributed throughout. It appeared in neat, indecipherable columns of blue ink, sometimes on either side of the page so there was clear space in the middle or in three, four, and five column groupings that left a little space between to write. There was the occasional blank page.
'This is very kind of you, but don't you need this?'
'No. It's for you. I want you to have it.'
'Thank you. I'm not sure...'
'Write.'
'Write?'
'I left space in there for you to write.'
2 comments:
thanks for passing this along.
d.
That's just....cool. Can you imagine if something like that happened for real? Hmmm.
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