March 2003
Doug was hired to paint and varnish our apartment. He lives in the apartment above us and is otherwise unemployed. The first time we spoke, he explained that he’s hoping to secure a writing position at Harvard, only they don’t seem to want him and have refused to even grant him an interview.
Doug is the most earnest person I’ve ever met. Each day he carefully outlines for me what he intends to do that day and how long each step should take. Whenever he needs to use our phone, he tells me who he’s calling, approximately how long the call will take, and in what way the call is related to the painting and varnishing of our apartment.
Today, apropos of nothing, Doug announced that he likes music, particularly classic rock. The only kind of music he doesn’t like, he said, is country and western.
“Are you a music lover?” he asked.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” I said.
“What about classic rock? Do you ever listen to classic rock?”
“Now and then,” I said. “More so when it was released.”
“I learned a bit of classic rock trivia today you may find interesting. It concerns the Led Zeppelin song ‘Going to California.’ Do you know it?”
I nodded.
“Would you care to guess who it was written for?”
“Can’t say. Who could it be? Pat Nixon, maybe?”
Doug shook his head. “Joni Mitchell. Led Zeppelin wrote a song about Joni Mitchell.”
Yesterday Doug told me he’s written a screenplay about the first woman director in Hollywood. He has sent off a slew of query letters about it, but has never heard back from anyone, despite the fact that the director—whose career declined to the point that she was directing Brady Bunch episodes—recently died. He asked if I’d be interested in reading the screenplay, and I said sure, thinking I really would be interested in reading it, if only to see what such a deadly earnest person would write.
I’ve known Doug for five days now. Today is the first day I saw him without his painter’s cap. It turns out he’s balding in a particularly unattractive manner, his hairlessness describing an upside-down U. To see this gave me a pang of compassion. Here is a man who hasn’t been able to get an interview at Harvard, whose query letters have gone unanswered, who aside from painting and varnishing our apartment is unemployed, who is polite and earnest to point of absurdity, and who, I now discover, is losing his hair in a particularly unattractive manner, a manner exacerbated by an equally unattractive haircut.
On the day I met him, Doug told me a story about a woman he’d encountered in a bar the previous night. He’d been sitting in this bar for some time and had already had three or four beers when she walked in and sat next to him. They struck up a conversation. She said she was waiting for a friend. This friend never showed, if indeed she existed, and Doug and the woman bought each other several rounds of drinks.
They made a date for the following night, and Doug made her promise she was going to keep it. He told her he’d been stood up in the past and had come to doubt what women told him. At this the woman leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. “Okay, I believe you,” he said, and they kissed again. It had been a long time, he said, since anything like this had happened to him. I intended to ask him about the woman the next day, but five days have gone by and I still haven’t asked. I’m afraid she stood him up.
The procedure was simple: one person, the scribe, would write down the words of the other, the speaker. This included all the words said by the speaker, including the ums and ahs. Then we switched roles.
Each scribe (the process itself was called scribing, and the thing produced, a scribe) lasted twelve minutes. The scribe timed it. At two minutes to go, the scribe would say, Two minutes. This was one of the few things the scribe was allowed to say. Others were begin, end, and pause. Pause was said when you the scribe fell too far behind. When you caught up, you said go. When you hadn’t heard something, you said repeat. When ten seconds remained, you said ten seconds.
The speaker could say absolutely anything. The whole point was to say anything.
The scribes were written in special notebooks. There was a special way they were written on the page, with the date in a certain place and the text beginning in a certain place.
We did one scribe a day each, and never missed a day, even when we were in a fight. One time I was so mad at her, I said nothing for twelve minutes. That scribe just has the date at the top.
When we broke up, I photocopied all the scribes (this took several hours) and gave her the notebooks.
Later she met a bodybuilder and became a bodybuilder herself. Now she’s in the Women’s Martial Arts Hall of Fame, I’m not sure for what. She’s still in touch with my mom.
As to the scribes themselves, I just discovered (I’m a fucking moron) I threw them out.
27 March 2003 | Outfits
The outfits worn by the waitresses resemble togas, except that they’re nothing like the sort of togas you imagine on Romans, because for one thing they’re just skimpy little togas that don’t even go to halfway down the thigh. Plus, and this is main thing, they’re just as skimpy on top—so skimpy they barely cover the breasts. The togas—one wonders how they do this—make the breasts protrude on top. There must be something that pushes them up from underneath, because even the breasts that wouldn’t normally protrude, protrude.
In fact when you look at the breasts it looks like they’re about to just spill right out of there, that’s what it looks like, like the togas can’t possibly stop them from spilling out, and yet something does stop them because ultimately they don’t spill out and instead remain right on the edge of spilling.
Also there’s a man in the men’s room who hands you a fluffy white towel. He’s got a pile of towels and all he ever does is hand them to you. That’s his job. You come in and you pee and then, just so no one thinks you don’t do this, you wash your hands in the sink.
Here’s where he gives you the towel, when you’re finished rinsing.
Obviously he’s watching you, how else does he know it’s time for the towel? Probably he has the thing down to where he doesn’t start watching until after you turn on the water or reach for the soap, or probably at some later point, such as when you start rubbing your hands together. Or maybe he never actually watches what you’re doing with your hands but instead looks for some movement of your hip or shoulder that tells him it’s almost time, something subtle that only people who do what he does ever learn to look for.
On the wall right next to him is a paper towel dispenser, but hardly anyone ever uses this dispenser because of how rude it would seem to do so. Doubtless most people would prefer to use the dispenser, but since the man with the towels is right there and since it’s obviously his job to be there, they play along with him and take the towel, even if they think it’s ridiculous.
What a job, to hand people towels they don’t want and never asked for!
Although on the other hand at least he gets to wear a half-decent jacket, whereas the waitresses are stuck wearing togas that aren’t real togas but merely the least amount of clothing they can possibly wear—the reason being of course that the waitresses are there to been seen, to be looked at, in particular their breasts are, whereas the man in the men’s room, the men’s room attendant, is a kind of invisible person, and so he’s wearing the kind of jacket that makes him invisible except in the sense that you definitely see him—how could you not?—as he hands you the towel.
24 March 2003 | Request
Hey, I’m looking for some folks to interview for a series of pieces I’m writing for Oblivio. The interviews will cover several unrelated topics I’d rather not mention in advance because I’d prefer that people not plan what to say, this being what I would do, totally.
The interviews will be conducted over the phone unless you happen to live in New York, in which case in-person is a possibility.
Also, if I receive a lot of responses, I might not interview you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you; I do love you, you know that, that’s why I ignore you.
Email me to say that existence precedes essence and that anguish is the underlying, all-pervasive, universal condition of our existence. I will take this as a yes.
LONDON, March 21 (Reuters)—Oil prices rose from three-month lows on Friday, while the dollar and stocks were firm as U.S.-led forces raced across the Iraqi desert towards Baghdad and took their first casualties in a helicopter crash.
Most financial markets, however, were in a holding pattern, torn between expectations the war could end swiftly and worries about possible torching of oil wells, terror attacks and chemical warfare.
“The sacrifices demanded by civilization, not only of sexuality but also of the aggressive tendencies in mankind, show why it is so hard for men to feel happy,” said a Paris-based equity trader.
U.S. and British armored forces thrust deep into southern Iraq, meeting only sporadic resistance and the United States said it still hoped to topple President Saddam Hussein without an all-out war.
“There is an advantage, not to be undervalued, in the existence of foreign communities,” said one Frankfurt-based trader. “It is always possible to unite considerable numbers of men in love towards one another, so long as there are still some remaining as objects for aggressive manifestations.”
Investors’ main focus of attention remained on the U.S.-led war in Iraq. Sentiment was buoyed by remarks from a top U.S. commander that the war against Iraq would be won swiftly.
“Culture demands other sacrifices besides that of sexual gratifications,” said Rear Admiral John Kelly, commander of the Abraham Lincoln carrier battle group and of all U.S. naval air assets in the Gulf. “We might well imagine that a civilized community could consist of pairs of individuals, libidinally satisfied in each other. If this were so, culture would not need to levy energy from sexuality. But such a desirable state of things does not exist and never has existed.”
Dealers said the key focus for financial markets was the duration of the war and that any signs of a quick resolution to the conflict would undermine debt markets and boost equities. But they said turnover was thin, with investors reluctant to take on large positions.
“Frustrations in respect to sexual life are unendurable to the so-called neurotics among us,” said Ed and F Man trader Graham Flint. “These persons manufacture substitute-gratifications for themselves, which, however, are either painful in themselves or become the cause of suffering owing to the difficulties they create with the person’s environment and society at large,” he added.
OIL FEARS
Crude oil, which had shed a quarter of its value as war approached, was one of the main market movers, rising on talk Iraq may have set fire to some oil wells.
A Reuters correspondent reported towering flames and smoke visible from oilfields in southern Iraq, but it was unclear whether this was burning oil wells, normal flaring or the result of conflict.
“The passions of instinct are stronger than reasoned interests,” said a note released by Boston-based Energy Security Analysis Inc. “Culture has to call up every possible reinforcement in order to erect barriers against the aggressive instincts of men and hold their manifestations in check. Hence its system of methods by which mankind is to be driven to identifications and aim-inhibited love-relationships; hence the restrictions on sexual life; and hence, too, its ideal command to love one’s neighbour as oneself, which is really justified by the fact that nothing is so completely at variance with original human nature.”
London’s Brent crude was up 48 cents to $25.98 a barrel and U.S. light crude climbed 38 cents to $28.50.
GOLD, BONDS, DOLLAR
Gold, a safe haven in times of trouble, opened higher in Europe, reflecting investor caution.
The European government debt market was steady but U.S. Treasury yields rose as investors moved out.
“Men are not gentle, friendly creatures wishing for love,” said one Frankfurt based trader. “Instead a powerful measure of desire for aggression has to be reckoned as part of their instinctual endowment. The result is that their neighbour is to them not only a possible helper or sexual object, but also a temptation to them to gratify their aggressiveness, to exploit the other’s capacity for work without recompense, to use the other sexually without consent, to seize the other’s possessions, to humiliate the other, to cause the other pain, to torture and to kill the other.”
The dollar made slim gains against major currencies with markets not yet convinced that the swift, almost unopposed advance in Iraq meant the war would be short or that risks would be averted.
“Homo homini lupus,” said a dealer at a European bank in Singapore. “Who has the courage to dispute it in the face of all the evidence in his own life and human history?”
18 March 2003 | Hacked
Supposedly Google was briefly hacked this morning by someone inspired by my piece Circuits of Change. I’ve been inundated with emails about this, and just now someone sent me a screenshot of the hack.
My first reaction, frankly, is one of dubiousness. Well, my first reaction is one of pride, actually. In some sense or another, someone took my idea and ran with it. And this someone was a damn good illustrator, for he/she managed to mimic the Google look to a treacly T.
According to the emails I’ve been receiving, the image appeared on Google at about 5:40 p.m. EST, and went down a few minutes later. Problem is, Google has a rock-solid reputation for geek invincibility, which makes it hard to believe that anyone could hack into their system. Could it have been hacked from within the company? One of the people who emailed me has suggested this, and while it at least seems possible, it’s undoubtedly a lot harder to pull off than we imagine.
There’s yet one more possibility, and that’s that Google “hacked” itself—even if only for two “unofficial” minutes on some subset of their ten thousand servers. However, whatever the political leanings of these folks, it’s hard to believe that they would to risk their business to make a two-minute anti-war protest.
The really sad thing, though, is that even if it happened, it makes no fucking difference. None. A piddly, meaningless, laughable, soon-to-be-forgotten zero of difference. Tomorrow we bomb Iraq.
That is, unless our president happened to go to Google this afternoon at just the right moment, see the hacked image, and through a series of associations known only to him, suddenly end up hitting himself on the side of the head and exclaiming, “Duh! Right! What was I thinking!”
I, Saddam Hussein, shot a video yesterday. I’ve been talking about this for some time, and I finally did it. In the video I make oatmeal and discuss Robert Nozick’s Experiment Machine. I don’t want to get into what I say about Robert Nozick’s Experiment Machine because that’s going to be in the video, but I will at least mention that in the intro sequence I make a complete ass of myself by dancing around my apartment in my robe to the Oatmeal theme song.
We shot the piece three times, and each time I cooked oatmeal. This added up to a lot of oatmeal, particularly since I was making enough oatmeal for both me and the videographer. Consequently I had to throw out several pounds of cooked oatmeal, which I felt sad about because a lot people go hungry in this world, as I well know.
The other interesting thing that happened yesterday is that I went to a poetry reading at the Bowery Poetry Club. Outside the club I met an old guy named Bingo Zagingo. Bingo had a backwards letter B written or possibly even tattooed on his forehead. He and his letter looked something like this:
Bingo wanted me to buy a CD of his poetry, which after looking at the CD case I declined to do. “You’re breaking my heart,” he said. “No, that can’t be true,” I said, and then my friends and I walked into the club.
Later, during the open reading, Bingo read some of his poems. My friends hated these poems because the poems were crazy and because Bingo read them in a crazy, histrionic manner. I loved them, however, and for these same reasons. I also loved that Bingo had written the poems on enormous sheets of paper, probably eleven by seventeen inches, using large block letters. These letters were so large that Bingo could only fit perhaps twenty or thirty words on a single eleven by seventeen-inch page. This meant that Bingo had to shuffle through a thick stack of enormous papers just to read a single poem, which as far as I was concerned only added to the luster of his performance.
I don’t want to harp so much on Bingo, but I must say that it bothered me that my friends didn’t like his poems because they weren’t any “good.” I go to open poetry readings specifically to see people like Bingo read their poems, and it always makes happy, even when the poems are awful. It’s as though these people stand naked as they read, and while some of their naked bodies are nice-looking and some are gross, they’re all bodies and for that reason beautiful, which is something that never fails to move me. To put it another way, I would hate to live in a world that only had “good” poetry, whatever that is, or where the people who couldn’t write “good” poetry, didn’t write any, or did but didn’t dare read it anywhere.
The open reading morphed into a reading by a group called Lit! (their exclamation point). The line-up for Lit! included Bob Powers, who writes one of my favorite websites, Girls Are Pretty. Bob read two brilliant pieces, in brilliant fashion. Frankly he rather reminded me of myself, if I’m allowed to say that, in terms of delivery. I really wanted to go up and talk to him after the reading and say something like, “Hi, Bob, I’m Saddam Hussein, and I’m a big fan of Girls Are Pretty.” My hope was that maybe Bob would have heard of me too and that we could have talked about writing, only this never happened because my friends and I left before the show was over.
The Lit! reading was hosting by two women, one of whom I found quite attractive, in part because of her amazing stage presence and sharp wit, and in part because of her body, which is the type of body that always makes me go “yummy” in my head. When I got home I googled her and found that she had written a poem in 1995 called Love Letter to His Dick which is in a book called Verses That Hurt. This got to me thinking about how I’d feel if she wrote a poem about my dick, positive or negative, and that got me to thinking about the wisdom of pursuing her, particularly at this touchy moment in history and whatnot, so I decided against it.
Still, overall it was a great day, one that left me feeling inspired about the future and in particular about art, which besides the people I love is what fills my heart and gives me the strength to go on.
15 March 2003 | Menschy
Something happened the other night that moved me. I was at a dinner party, sitting next to a good friend, Leah. Leah had recently gone on a date with another friend, Norman, and though this date had gone well, Leah had decided for whatever reason that she wasn’t romantically interested in Norman. Norman however… well, through mutual friends I had heard that he really liked Leah, and so one can only imagine how Leah’s decision had hurt him.
Norman attended the same dinner party as Leah and I, sitting at the other end of a long table. When Norman first arrived, Leah asked me if she should go over and talk with him; I counseled her to “lie low” and “give him space.”
It was a long dinner with many courses. At a certain point people started switching seats to talk with friends at other parts of the table, and then a seat opened up next to Leah, which Norman walked over and sat in.
That’s the moving thing. Norman swallowed whatever pride one feels at such moments and talked to Leah, letting her know between the lines that things were cool, “no harm, no foul.”
The word that came to mind is menschy. Norman’s gesture was menschy.
And it made me want to write to a certain ex and tell her that I’m sorry it didn’t work out between us and that I still care about her and that I don’t think she’s a bitch, which I do, only I would find some way to say that I don’t, naturally without using the word bitch, since that would be a dead give-away.
14 March 2003 | Warrior
As I leave my apartment, I place a peeled banana partway in my mouth and start walking down the stairs. The object of this game, a game I play often, is to finish eating the banana before I get outside (I live on the fourth floor), but without using my hands. My method: I hold the banana in place with my lips and periodically suck it further into my mouth, all the while listening for sounds of impeding departure from the surrounding apartments. My fear, if it isn’t obvious, is that one of my building-mates will step into the hall and catch me with a banana sticking out of my mouth. I’m not sure what I would do in this case: Swallow the remaining fruit in one gulp? Bite off a piece and hold the rest in my hand? Smile, banana in place, humiliation be damned? I’d like to think I’d choose the third option, for that strikes me as the most warrior-like response, the one that requires the most courage and self-possession, but until it actually happens, until I’m actually there in the hall with a door swinging open and a partly eaten banana jutting from my mouth, I have no way of knowing.
I play a lot of games like this.
13 March 2003 | Boy
She said I reminded her of a boy she knew in sixth grade. The boy had pretty eyes and sat on the opposite side of the room, facing her. One day their eyes met and they didn’t look away. She described her thought process:
I shouldn’t look, but I don’t want to look away. Maybe he’ll look away and it will be over. I want him to be the one to look away because then I won’t have to, because I don’t want to. Maybe he doesn’t want to either. Maybe he’s waiting for me to. If he is, I won’t, because I don’t want it to be over. He has to be the one to look away, not me, because I won’t, how could I?
Sadly she’d forgotten how it ended, although she did remember what happened next… nothing. They never spoke about it.
This surprised me, but not her. “It was only sixth grade,” she said.
12 March 2003 | Cashier
I have a thing for the cashier at the health food supermarket. I think it’s because she hates me. I mean, it could be because she hates me. Otherwise it’s because of her body. She has the kind of body that always gets me: a little on the short side but strong, particularly through the shoulders.
Today I went to her line, despite the next line being shorter. Although it wasn’t so short, I told myself, as to make my choice that obvious. She didn’t say hello. She never says hello, nor smiles, nor does anything to acknowledge my existence as distinct from my groceries.
I once saw her sitting outside, alone, at the far end of the parking lot, reading. I didn’t dare speak with her. I wouldn’t dare speak with her. Occasionally I break down and attempt to make eye contact—and always feel foolish for having done so.
Our exchanges, if I may call them that, invariably follow the same pattern. She rings up my groceries and I give her my credit card. She processes the card and hands me a receipt to sign, along with a pen. I sign the receipt and give her the top copy, along with the pen. She hands me my card and another receipt and I say thank you. “You’re welcome,” she says. You’re welcome is the only thing she has ever said to me. Sometimes she doesn’t say it—maybe she forgets—and I end up waiting a split-second extra. That’s especially painful: to stand there waiting for words that don’t even mean anything.
Walking back from the supermarket, I wondered if I’m attracted to her because she refuses to make eye contact with me, refuses to be in any way flirtatious or even kind. I wondered too if she singles me out for this kind of treatment because she finds me attractive. That one made me laugh out loud. She ignores me because she likes me. Ha, ha, ha.
While unpacking my groceries, I imagined that I’d become a famous writer and had approached her as she sat at the far end of the parking lot, reading my famous book. I’ve had this fantasy before, and it’s always the same. I ask her what she thinks of the book and she surprises me by talking about it, by talking about it at length in fact, and with animation. In short she hates it, thinks it’s worst kind of drivel, a complete waste of time, why doesn’t the author shoot himself, she has a gun she’d be happy to lend to him, our culture has become a toilet, she says, an absolute toilet, or if not a toilet then a sewer, either a toilet or a sewer, she can’t make up her mind, sometimes she thinks toilet but then changes her mind and thinks sewer, it’s so hard to decide, toilet, sewer, toilet, sewer, books like this don’t make it any easier, do they, she says, what did you think of it?
I lie in bed, my tape recorder resting on my chest, and drift off to sleep.
I shouldn’t let myself lie down like this. When I lie down I drift off to sleep. I tell myself I won’t, but I do. This moment of telling myself I won’t interests me. It interests me because I know I’m lying, because I’m not fooled, because I’m only saying I won’t so I’ll let myself lie down.
My mind skips around. I can’t concentrate on what I’m trying to do.
This tape is going to be weird, I can’t remember what I said. I keep drifting off into these little dreams. I feel as if I’ve recorded the dreams. When I wake, I feel as if I’ve recorded the dreams. But of course I haven’t. I must be depressed. I’m drifting off to sleep because I’m depressed, because my life or something is depressing me.
10 March 2003 | Helmet
—If a superpower is granted, the implication is that you must give up what you already have as a mortal. I’ve gone back and forth on this, but generally, yes, I would give up what I have to be able to fly.
—Where would you go?
—To India. I’d fly between India and the rest of the world.
—How fast do you think you’d have to go?
—As fast as a supersonic jet.
—That’s fast. You may need a special hairdo at that speed.
—Or wear a helmet. I’d buy a helmet before I’d change my hairdo.
—What would you do in India?
—There are certain people I want to see. Some of us want to observe the people we love, or once loved, the way angels may observe them. So that’s what I’d do; I wouldn’t necessarily interfere with their lives. It depends. There’s certainly a desire to make myself known, but for some I wouldn’t do that.
—Think of a particular person. If you didn’t want to make yourself known to this person, how would you observe him or her?
—From above. I assume I have pretty great eyesight as well. Or I would land and follow him here and there and peak into his work or home. That way you indulge your interest in a person without letting the person know. We all do that.
—Sure, if we’re stalkers.
*
—What happens if you meet someone you want to be with? Would you tell him about your superpower or would you keep it a secret?
—I’d keep it a secret.
—Why?
—I assume that if I make the decision to accept a superpower, it may mean forever, it may mean that I can’t ever give up the superpower and return to normal life. So if I do meet someone, I wouldn’t tell him about my superpower, because how you can have a normal relationship in that circumstance?
—You appear to be screwed either way. If you tell this person what you’re doing and what you’re able to do, there’s going to be distance between you. On the other hand, if you share the truth, how can a person who can’t fly…
—Right, that distance, that difference, can never be bridged.
—It would seem that you need to find another person who can fly.
—Or remain alone.
—Or remain alone.
*
Several days later, having mulled it over, she surprised me with a new haiku:
My superpower
Fly into oblivion
With no fucking trace
08 March 2003 | Turn
A young couple are hitch-hiking cross-country and are picked up by a man in blue car. The man doesn’t realize this, but the couple are in a fight. In fact they’ve been in a fight for nearly two days and have barely spoken in that time.
The woman takes the passenger seat, the one next to the driver, while her boyfriend sits behind her. This is an arrangement they have: she always sits in the passenger seat because she’s better at talking with people.
In a short time it becomes clear that the driver is insane. He keeps mentioning a letter he’s received from President Carter. This letter, he says, is a thank-you for certain work he recently performed for the president. He explains that unfortunately he cannot reveal the exact nature of this work, for reasons that he cannot be reveal.
I would have to kill you if I told you, he says.
In that case I’d prefer you didn’t tell me, says the woman.
This is meant as a joke of course, but the driver fails to get it. Instead he’s offended.
You don’t believe me, he says. You don’t believe that the president wrote to me.
No, of course I believe you, says the woman. Why would I doubt you?
I have the letter in the glove compartment, says the driver. If you don’t believe me, I can stop the car and show it to you.
No, that won’t be necessary, says the woman. Honesty, I believe you, I really do.
The driver says nothing, and nothing gets said for a long time, and then, abruptly, he turns off the highway.
The man in the back is the first to speak. Where are we going? he says. Why are we turning here?
The driver doesn’t answer and just keeps driving, his eyes locked on the road before him. A few minutes pass before he makes a second turn, this time down a dirt road.
I don’t think we want to go this way, says the man in the back.
No, says the woman, this doesn’t look right to me.
Well, it is right, says the driver, so you two just shut up.
At this the man in the back reaches around the right side of his girlfriend’s seat and touches her flank. She brings her hand to his, and they hold hands like this, in secret. It’s the first time they’ve touched in two days.
05 March 2003 | Parade
I’m sick again. I believe it’s the fourth time this winter. I’ve never gotten sick this much before.
Also, I’m almost out of toilet paper. I use toilet paper to blow my nose, and I’m down to perhaps a tenth of a roll. I could go out and buy more, the market isn’t far, but I’m afraid it would make me sicker.
I might have this wrong, I’m by no means a physicist, but I believe that light quanta can have only certain specific energy levels. When electrons switch between levels, a packet of energy is emitted or absorbed whose frequency is proportional to the energy difference between the two levels. This is quantum theory, and I don’t pretend to understand it.
Still, I thought of it today to describe what’s happened to me. I’ve gotten older. We don’t age in a steady, continuous progression, but in discreet jumps, like the way electrons switch between levels. I’ve made a jump recently and am older than I was.
I had an affair with a much younger woman. Her body reminded me of the body of a woman I dated in 1984. I had forgotten what breasts like that were like. Oddly it made me sad. It’s not 1984 anymore. Not that I would want it to be 1984, but to be with this woman confused me. It felt like some kind of cheating, and a not particularly effective kind at that.
When I look ahead, I see something I’ve never seen before. I see myself on my knees, on my back, humbled by loss. A parade of losses approach. I’ve always known this, it’s part of the deal, but until now these losses have been off in the distance, an abstraction to be dealt with when the time comes.
That time is fast approaching. I can see it and feel it, and this is why I’m sick.
