I am, a l’huere actuelle, trying to remember the face of a man, the identity of whom I remember nothing about. The man once shared with me his sullen opinions of a woman, a woman whom he had never met, a woman who read for an audiobook recording of Swann’s Way. All I can remember, and this vague, far memory came back to me uninvited, frankly, is the man’s disgruntled opinion of the way in which the woman read from Proust's Swann's Way. He really hated her guts, he had told me, not lightheartedly. Poor man. Was a discontented man. Didn’t like the voice nor the tone of the woman in the recording, and he told me all about it when I mistakenly brought up Monsieur Proust. And that’s all I remember, a l’huere actuelle.

This memory came back to me as of recent because I am reading Proust's works, but, more specifically, the memory was all the more kindled by my actually coming upon what is sure to be the voice of the woman which incidentally set the man off. The other two main recordings of Swann's Way on Youtube are read by men, the voices of men. Sir Ralph Richardson's is particularly enjoyable. If only that poor man would have chosen one of those takes. He chose the Combray 1 recording posted by The Poetry Channel, so it seems, the same one I am listening to now, laughing the pants off my ass. I remember the man being very bitter about the woman, saying things about her most likely being a strumpet by the way her voice would intone over certain passages. I hadn't a clue what he was talking about at the time, and such a conversation would have been lost to oblivion, were it not for me now listening to what I am sure is the same recording. Not that the lovely woman's voice is common in any way. It's not that she intoned any passages or words with an ulterior vulgarity or anything, but I can see how he could have thought so. Dear, dear. I've been laughing a lot through the reading, actually. So many could be moments which may or may not have showered ridiculously upon this poor man's auditory bearing horrible intimate revelations, just ridiculous really.

Los Angeles, the home without a distance. The West's spring-water tombhake. The city I've spent most of my life in, and the past few days wandering, reading Proust, and writing, and journaling in.

Today, I am home, trying to remember that man's face, and trying to remember more about our conversation. Years ago now. Must be. Poor guy. Anyway, I cannot remember his face. Just those few batches of conversation which I've mentioned. And those few batches only because I found the voice, which I am enjoying by way of a pair of earphones even as I type. Thankful to anyone, man or woman or anyone, who would deign to spend their time recording themselves reading limpid masterpieces.

Taken from the continued pocket notepad entries:

"'Awh boy, a peacock is always showin' off.'"

"...I belong with P. in Cannes."

"Written after a walk out on the northwest face of the Baldwin Hills peninsula. I have been reading the Combray section and the Swann in Love section of Swann's Way at the same time, alternating back and forth from each, which is proving to be very, very confusing. Understandably so. And here, a sketch of white guilt, written by a half-blood Mexican: I was walking up the trail, and, seeing a couple taking a selfie, beautiful couple, I smiled at the woman in passing. She, responding to my smile, said, 'what the hell? He's laughing at us, hun, lookie. He's laughing at us, and look at him, well, I'll go buy some Hemingway and read that, how about that, huh?' Word for word. Why she said Hemingway I haven't the slightest idea. I wasn't bitter, but, I guess, let down. I am dressed dapper. I have a gray beret, old-timey slacks, also gray, and I was, at the time, carrying my notepad in my hands, ready for a write at any moment's notice, and carrying my book. She took one look at my smile and thought I was some vain tool looking down on her and her man. Damn these misunderstandings, I say. Damn them. I hold nothing but love. What's even funnier is the unbidden comment which I was given upon my reaching the peninsula's top. Oh you poor poet, you! Yes, once I reached the top, which was indeed crowded, an older woman, sitting with her family, took one look at me up and down, and exclaimed, 'Awh boy, a peacock is always showin' off!' I do not remember blushing, only writing her words down quickly, and also jotting down a note about missing my beloved Paola, feeling somewhat bitter with my surroundings, feeling longing for her and not crowds of unacquainted people, and then heading back down without enjoying the spectacular, amazing, wonderful view, yet not before catching a close quip of conversation which tickled my funny bone."

"Another conversation which I overheard during those moments atop the peninsula, among the crowds, consisted just of a young woman talking to her two friends. I remember intuiting to myself that she was from out of town, and sure enough, she spoke to her two friends, 'yeah, I lived in Montana, up in the Northwest, Arkansas, Michigan. L.A. seems to have some type of sex obsession. It's not that it's bad, it's not, but it's like in everything, a part of everything, and, it's fun, but other places, other places it's just...' and that's all I can remember, as the voice faded into the crowd, as I turned to descend back down the face of the peninsula."

"I can tell, I can feel, the majority of people do not enjoy having a writer in their midst: in public. It makes them feel uncomfortable, seeing a man scribbling there, well-dressed to a T, writing, creating, soothing his chiaroscuros. His posturist and self-assured and yet overwhelmingly self-conscious looks seem to say something about mystical secrets unknown. Alas, sometimes I feel like writers are only on this planet to walk around and do their bit, to write: it's how they show their love of life. But, if they write while out in public, well-dressed, so it seems, quite oddly, they inculcate a nameless, stagnant hate from those all around them. Am I not to dress a poet? Am I not to define my own unstagnancy through elegance?"

Now, I have just finished listening to the recording (my second readthrough of Proust's classic's beloved first chapter) of Swann's Way, In Search Of Lost Time Vol 1, Combray 1 made available on Youtube by The Poetry Channel, having enjoyed its sound in the background as I transcribed my story, as I finished my first, inperson read of the Combray section while on the bus home yesterday. And, tout a coup, upon taking my earphones out of my ears and reaching over to unplug them from the auxiliary, the memory of the man's identity has come back to me, a dove, an olive branch, ah! that's who he was, yes- a strange man I'd met many years ago, he was a patron at a local bookstore on Green Street, Century Books, which I used to frequent, a disheveled, manycoated man, who had also (the memory of the entire conversation returning as I write) told me unsurreptitiously how he would spend days, hours, weeks, months, in the local public library photocopying every one of his favorite books, page by page, in their entirety, saving them onto his flash-drive. He offered me his e-mail and access to the special copies of the books. I smiled and took his e-mail down, and, after he was quite finished telling me all about the ungodly, Proustian woman, I gave my goodbye. Ah, I must have it around here somewhere, his e-mail, in one of these boxes or drawers, or, perhaps it's hiding on top of one of these dusty shelves, now, ah, where is it, hmm, ah, there we are, here, here it is.