I was working on an art project where Max Fish is on Ludlow St. It was daytime. We had a conveyor belt darkroom set up but first I had been rubbing wet paper on a cocoa metal box to lift a transfer copy of the letters from. The transfer was lifted in tiny little couscous like beads. By the time I finished the first one it was midnight. The art stores were closed. A crazy (retarded) lady from the building had been ranting and raving in the middle of the street in the busy part of the city. The cops brought her--since the lady was going to sleep, unaware of the art supplies she wasn't using. I left a sandwich on the counter. Jasmine was helping the lady and Jasmine let me use her tissue paper, since when she woke up there would be more. This time I got more and the big letters lifted, though the small letters (ingredients) had been near perfect the first time. The gallery was being rented out for a wedding and the bride was a no-show. I was supposed to get married but my mind was on the art project in the darkroom. I was invisible to the wedding guests who were looking at their watches. They had forgotten to get drinks to go with the cake. So a takeout delivery was made: one pint of O.J., a 12 oz. can of apple juice and a couple other cans of juice. I put them in the refrigerator and left. The guests were at the table waiting for fireworks and instead all they got was mustard and ketchup. I was walking up 1st Avenue and stopped in front of a storefront. Inside there were 5 lace slips from another country, another century. They were marked $30.00. I didn't have the $. The poems were scattered on the floor of the empty bar and the guys were leaving to go check out all the topless bars. They asked me did I want to go, but I knew it was just out of politeness and instead I wanted to stand in front of the window of the closed shop and look at the beautiful slips on hangers. $30 apiece.