The seventies were shit; the eighties sucked ass; he barely remembered the nineties; and everything after 2000 was lost in a haze of self-loathing.
Things were looking up.
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The next day, we would attend a rally in Oakland. I asked how many would be there. 10, 20 or 100,000, it was thought. Leaving the building, I thought, all we would need to chant would be “Obama.” That would stand for everything we needed to say.
In order to preserve energy, his last weeks were marked by a strict economy of means—pointing to an object, a nod yes or no. His final blog entry, posted at 4 am, read “blog entry.”
A grid system was developed in order to rationalize intuitive choices.
August in the city when nobody gives a fuck anymore.
The standing O triggered another harrowing bout of imposter’s syndrome.
Another word for provocateur: asshole.
He told me that he didn’t much care what he did during the day as long as he could drink at the end of it.
The group repudiated any suggestion of esthetic joy or gestural flourish in its practice. Details not grounded in rigorously defended academic theory were ruthlessly prosecuted. Working there was like joining the Taliban.
Parked in front of a liquor store, a song comes on and you find yourself sobbing. One of your grandfathers was maudlin, the other erratic and violent. You’ve always oscillated between the two, but lately there’s been little in-between.
