Flipping through Ada Friedman’s binder at the Kunsthalle show, my binder I tell him, it had chosen me as its matron during a preview of the exhibition earlier that day, I say, responding to his note of nocturne assonance, our sudden arrival on the same flight path, and would it work now, and when it does, wondering why don’t we always conjunct, why rarely so, when it’s good it’s good and when it isn’t—a silent curtain. I bring up Didion and Warhol for Interview magazine (Why can’t it be magic all the time / What.) and he says something like, well that’s a Pandora’s box of a question, but Angels never really talk to one another, as in amongst themselves, and I give him the long look that, to an external party, perhaps even to this friend, might suggest doubt, skepticism, a clamming before full close, but of course really means retreat to an inner glee of seen-seen assent.
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