A space has been created in your brain for advertising, magical thinking, and organized religion.
I like to keep myself unbusy.
·
You just need to rest. A day of healing and rest. Around midnight you find yourself in a Thai karaoke bar down the road from your sister’s house. You vaguely remember Norman Mailer writing that scotch is for people who’ve given up hope, and order one. Midway through your second, watching a stoned girl and her catatonic friend wander listlessly through I’m a Believer, you have your first panic attack.
You’ve always known you’re unremarkable. But now, on your day of healing and rest, curled up on the bathroom floor, you’re spectacular.
Hope or expectation, that’s where the trouble begins.
Things you thought were important turned out not to be important.
Things you thought were not important turned out to be important.
He referred to his projects rather ecumenically as items. Although each was minutely embedded in particularity, the overwhelming force of his attention rendered them in some sense uniform.
Another day, another pithy aphorism.
In the daytime you cling to life with fierce desperation, but you often go to bed not caring if you ever wake up.
Gratitude—the only way back.
After his death even his journals were found to consist of vague, ambiguous and purposely misleading statements.
An unfinished novel, left along a road, picked apart by crows.
The evenings are black and the mornings cold and grey. The only way forward is through it.
His audience had demonstrated a bottomless need for his bottomless need of their bottomless need.
