My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
(Prerecorded laugh track)
why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?
(laugh track)

This book would have been a labor of hate, never to be completed.
·
She said, you’re a true artist, but not a very good one.
·
Fuck it. I am going down in flames, somewhere out over the ocean. Or somewhere in a bar, in this undocumented summer. That will be my book.

The weeks streak by. A decade used to be a year.

The wind, always present, but only its effects visible.

It was a period in history when, for whatever reason, people by default ended up in Portland.

A surprisingly common admixture of spiritually adept and psychologically unaware.

I’d rather be here, with you, for the worst that could happen, than anywhere else, for the best.

Over the years, when I asked about other people’s work, he inevitably answered not so good. On a few rare occasions he said not so bad. I never dared ask about mine. I knew the answer.

Imaginative acts were denounced as vectors of postcolonial oppression.

Is any word more ominous than the word ominous?

Street photos of narcissists—like shooting fish in a barrel.

What’s the problem?
No idea, really. It’s quite the mystery.
How does it manifest?
Microagressions, slamming drawers, muttering, occasionally striking oneself on the head with a crystal paperweight. The usual.
Does it leave a mark?
Only above the hairline.

A contagion of insanity is loose in the land.