If only I had as much energy as our young Moth. One never knows where she's going to turn up next: this evening, on top of the kitchen cupboards. And I'm feeling exhausted from reading Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, which seems much more readable than when I borrowed it from Wimbledon Library in 1970, but is having the effect on me of wanting - needing - to go and sit on my own in a very, very quiet space - like Walt Whitman without the line breaks, at best, and for the rest of the time - the most remarkable thing is that Wolfe himself claimed that he never took acid, only once smoked marijuana - and yet, of course, he manages to get inside the head of every doped up Merry Prankster. Why, you might well ask ... ? Lots of flashes! Revelatory ones! Inner experience ones! It's the link between Harold Edgerton and stroboscopic photography and - and what? Flash mobs, flash fiction, flash restaurants ... but I won't get to writing about them till the weekend, most probably.
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