notes in time. i finished the jesus book. i was glad to finish. it is accomplished. there are so many layers, and the crux remains a mystery, ok. on to joan didion, notes to john. a book that was left to find after everyone in the notes died. everything i read has echoes. it may be a common prayer thing. it becomes about someone i knew before, now a long time ago. it becomes, surprise surprise, about me, ok. she writes between her daughter, her husband, he mother, her shrink. i don't call them shrinks, but it creeps in, from elsewhere, like sarah perhaps. when sarah died i saw the people she knew in separate places come together in a narrow room, with a barrage of her collage. the people in the collage, myriad eyes and stories, converging and splitting again to their separate ways. reading didion's notes i think of someone who told me a dream about a small creature pressed against a wire fence, terrified, and the figure of pressure was a shadowy monster, a father. echoes are everywhere and then there are trains below on the embankment and bells and geese honking and the ever present ringing in my ears.