[6.xii.25.a : samedi] Meanwhile, once again, by pure coincidence the player contradicts along differing paths through this charged novel — to date ,, has been published in the original main story. The result was born in the Bronx to a rare animal escaped from the zoo/zone … two volumes have been published … and more to come !!! providing a range of consequences and endings : such as 30th March 1954 2nd H-BOMB EXPLODED. Because there are few such books in English … more in translation … further volumes are being assembled at this very moment depending on the preponderance of strange particles and foreign corpuscles … she moved to Connecticut with her family when she was a sliver of nonfiction embedded in real fiction … are in the process of being eliminated before being recycled as pseudomaps and horoscopes predicting the choices you will make throughout the game. I was close to five years old when I encountered :: the UFO landed in the wheat field. She was integrated of the third kind while calculating 1969 … #NN25

I am the sort of writer who is tempted to build my entire body of work on coincidence under the supervised operations of chance and subsequent gardening. You might think this addiction to childish magic is alluring, but coincidence is unsettling. One principal reason to become a writer (even a secret one) is to maximize the frequency of chance connections that guide your life along constantly shifting magnetic field lines. So I went to school to become a designer of scientific instruments sensitive enough to measure even the smallest fluctuations in the contingency field. Documented evidence reveals that underlying the incessant fluctuations of the quantum foam, a Great Author fashions snowpeople and ice sculptures. Does your life have a storyline? With this simple, step-by-step booklet, you too can learn how to connect the dots like a true coincidence magnet. In no time you will feel chosen and be granted the power to decode the secret language of all things. Even atheists believe in coincidence! A coincidence is being afforded a glimpse of a single link in the great chain that all life is made of.

[7.xii.25.b : dimanche] But that isn’t literature … I said this when she asked me why I hadn’t written the last book, the failed [to be] happily ever after book. She frowned in that way she does … she’d taken to calling me her poet … Tell me, poet, she would say and brush my cheek with her finger tips, sadness in that gesture … that was ten years ago ,, I would say a lot has happened in ten years ,, I’m not the same poet I was then. In that little café where we sat next to each other near the window she asked me if it was impossible to write about happiness … who wants to read about happiness? I’d said. Maybe I didn’t believe it … didn’t believe that anyone would read a book without drama, without conflict … or maybe I didn’t believe we were really happy, that we (both of us) were fooling ourselves, going through the motions of should-be happiness, adopting the poses of those happy people in TV commercials whose every problem in life is solved by just the right box of cornflakes … If I’d written the final book it would be a Book of Days, of her cooking meals for him … that other me, the narrator of the book, or her reading distractedly from a book waiting for him to return, of her lying next to him in the bed while he dozed, just for the pleasure of looking at him … and repeated for :: certainly no more than hundred times … seventy-five ,, then there were the moonlit evenings on the beach, long drives through the countryside. No, nothing happened that summer. A dog nearly drowned, but was rescued by a passing boat. I replaced the fuel pump on her car and changed a tire after a blow out when we were on a backstreet in Lowell. We went to the Saturday afternoon matinée and ten o’clock mass every Sunday. She wore a sleeveless dress one day when we went to the park for a picnic. She peeled a blood orange and fed it to me section by section while kneeling next to me on the checkered blanket and I discovered in my handy meandering way that she was wearing nothing under her dress. Such events are better as film. The physical nature of our pleasure is lost on the page … but can you imagine it? The taste of the blood orange? The smooth skin of her thighs? A warm summer afternoon in the park with nothing else to do? #NN25