jetlagged, we slept in late getting up between 10 and noon i forget exactly (east coast time), and i phoned my parents' place from Kim's apartment (magically transformed overnight from an absurdly shrunken doll's room to a luxurious newyork hotel suite, lavishly appointed. Kim, a colleague of my mom's, collects (among other things) and hangs framed "samplers," mostly from the past century.

checking in, i'm told that peter is headed downtown to pick up the repaired typewriter cover that prevented him from bringing his near-antique portable with him to the Philippines. Instead, he borrowed his old friend (and alter ego) Peter Hirsch's antique portable, which arrived with its cover threaded with mold. In fact, it's now broken, I'm told.

In my parents' dining room, wary of the dog and cat dander, I'm shown a strangely weathered book (a gift from Jennifer), partly eaten by termites. Peter regretted putting it backside down on top of the (thoroughly gutted) shelf of books, as he had not finished reading up on Chinese history. Sara, his betrothed, read a poem into it, How did the termites find Mao? not having held the book alive and chittering in grotesque Burroughs sensurround. And honestly, it looked like art to me too. Very po-mo. I'll try to have it scanned.