Wilderness Years
Fragments/Fictions
Salvaged from Deactivated
Social Media Accounts
2010–2017

Photograph: a photograph of itself.
Drawing: a record of its own making.

Marilyn Minter
Johnny Winter
Harold Pinter

His grand opus, a masterpiece of omission.

Stockholm syndrome : not just for prisoners anymore.

Best case scenario: body dysmorphic disorder.

It took him nearly two decades to find a suitably megalomaniacal form for his art.

Shoveling wet, heavy snow in a rage, wind roaring in your ears, you find yourself hoping for a heart attack and thinking, how fucked up is that?

They weren’t real likes, they were pity likes.

You’re hearing the instruments.
You’re missing the music.

I never saw him that he wasn’t wearing a shirt with large square fold marks, as if he’d just come out of a store, pulled it from its package, and put it on.

The work is inconsistent; not of a piece; in violation of its own precepts; insufficiently committed.

A grid system was developed in order to rationalize intuitive choices.

Do gorillas throw shit in the wild?

On the fifth anniversary of her mother’s death she found a lump on her breast. There was no one to tell; the roommate-slash-fuckup she occasionally slept with had skipped out in the middle of the night without paying rent. She wasn’t close with anyone at work, and anyway, she’d been laid off three weeks earlier. Yesterday she’d thought, “if one more thing happens, I don’t know what I’ll do.” And she’d been right: she didn’t know what to do.

Don’t love your artists, it turns them into monsters.

The word practice—perfect for cultivating a veneer of respectability while retaining the frisson of artistic endeavor.

In the days before Christmas we got tired of having no money. We sold everything at a loss, took the cash and headed south.

Since childhood she had engaged in small acts of self-mutilation in hopes of turning prettiness into beauty.

All that work, all that time, all those years, adding up to so little.

Passing Rockland Psych Center, saw dead dog on side of road.
Wept for next 38 miles.
Just when you think there’s nothing left, there it is again.

I post the memes that make the whole world sing.

You see an idea where I see a picture.

The parallel life his father always sensed, shimmering just out of reach, riding a limitless cusp of possibility that never materialized.

The film was an odd amalgam of ridiculously beautiful and just plain ridiculous. In places, I wept. When the credits began to roll, half the audience erupted in laughter.

Walking down the street, you’re hardly there. The rest of you—things lost and things forgotten—is currently dissipating in a thin blue-grey cloud somewhere in the tri-state area. It’s never coming back, but sometimes, when it passes close, and you feel a tugging in your chest, and imagine that you hear it crying, you almost remember how it used to be.

My note of condolence marked the beginning of the end of our friendship. Evidently grief over the loss of a cat doesn’t yield a permissible amount of insight into the the death of someone else’s parent.

Such beauty that the only suitable response would be to no longer exist.

He hadn’t done an honest piece of work since his unexpected success in 1968. Ego, more destructive than drugs or booze.

World’s longest book: insults you haven’t forgotten.

You’ve found the perfect pair of glasses,
but you still feel like an asshole.

Beloved by millions—and a nasty piece of work.

This was the day he realized everything was a bonus.

What if God is the world stripped of advertising?

Long after your actions and their results, the residue of your intentions.

The primary function of memory is to fuck with your head.

The world’s longest and saddest book: great shit nobody noticed.

Premium vodka, biggest scam ever

As a society, they exhibited a mania for naming, labeling and classification that subsumed the actuality of the thing itself.

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.”

Art appreciation with a hangover
Jenny Holzer: shut the fuck up
Marina Abramovic: put your fucking clothes back on
Joseph Beuys: take off the fucking hat

For years I saw him once a day with his after-work drink and loosened tie, desultorily watering the lawn with his free hand. After a few minutes she’d join him, in her Jackie Kennedy white pants, smoking a cigarette and regarding him through narrowed eyes. When he’d finished his drink he’d throw the ice in the bushes before they went back inside. I never figured out if they hated each other or were deeply in love.

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.

On her way to the bathroom she overhears her coworker, an office wit with whom she has occasionally flirted, describe her appearance in unflattering terms. Humiliated, she hurries to the mirror and stares at herself in disbelief. How had she not noticed this before? With her recent weight gain and new hair cut, she bears a disconcerting resemblance to Oscar Wilde. For the rest of the day she can’t bring herself to meet anyone’s eyes, and over the next few weeks becomes convinced that anytime she hears someone laugh, they are remembering her friend’s comment.
·
She begins drinking at lunch. Friends comment she no longer seems like “her old self.” She spends as much time as possible alone in the bathroom. One day she grips the frame of the toilet stall on either side and on sudden impulse smashes her forehead as hard as she can into the sharp edge. After the initial blast of pain subsides, and numbness spreads from her teeth to her jaw and right arm, It feels good. Her inner and outer worlds have reached equilibrium.

Another day on earth;
pray for mercy and hope for the best.

He couldn’t stand people whose voices sounded as if they knew they were likable.

Life slips through your fingers and comes back together somewhere else. You’re God-intoxicated. Or maybe just intoxicated.

Twenty years ago a stranger stopped you on the street and said “Some day you, too, will look like Dylan Thomas.” You thought of it often over the years, but less and less. Now, looking in the mirror, you get it. Not Dylan Thomas, exactly, but someone equally unrecognizable to your inner, younger self.

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.

Everything I’ve lost, I want back.
Except for the bad parts; those you can keep.

He said, my work was always important to me, which wasn’t the same as actual importance. All that work, all those years, adding up to so little.

Life lessons so far:
1) life
2) life

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

I wonder if you could talk about some of your early influences. I’m thinking in particular of well-known influences.

Well, Dudley Fitts, of course… He was at Andover when I knew him, but I think all the schools had him at one time or another. Of course, he was getting pretty old at that point. His best days were probably behind him. He had some weird theory about transmuting base metals into gold.
And later, at Harvard…

Well, he came with me to Harvard. He followed me around there for a number of years.
You’ve written movingly of your falling-out.

There came a time—inevitably, I suppose—when I felt I had to repudiate his influence. Remember, this was Harvard in the sixties; I was taking a lot of mind-altering drugs, appearing with my friends on David Susskind and so forth, and eventually he became an embarrassment. 
Still, I’m not proud of it; still haven’t quite forgiven myself. I’m working on that. I’ve given myself permission to forgive myself.
To this day, I find myself thinking, “What would Dudley do in this situation?” Or, “What would Dudley think of this?” I try to find myself worthy of his memory. In a way, I guess he’s become my Beatrice—him and Beatrix Potter.
You dangled him by the ankles from your tenth floor window.
That is absolutely not true! Cal Lowell did that. (Shudders) You could always tell when Cal was “going off” — that ghastly smile of his, glasses all steamy…
OK — so I was in the room when it happened…
OK, OK —so I held one of his ankles. But it was Cal’s idea. That was a summer! I’m afraid we all went a little crazy.

Eggleston’s images seem to contain the threat of imminent annihilation.

One warm summer night when I was fifteen years old, I lit a cigarette on a dry hillside near San Bernadino, California. After all these years, I still can’t bear to confront the  destruction caused by this simple thoughtless act—yet I do, unceasingly. How many times have I gone to bed hoping to not wake up? But dying wouldn’t help; I would need to have never been born.

In the morning I hear the long shriek of the hawk, as if to say, I am all that matters. Death from above.

You don’t want to get up, but somehow you do. You don’t want to be seen, but eventually you are. You don’t want to speak, but unfortunately you do, regretting it immediately.

God, not as an entity, but a mental position affording consciousness safe navigation of reality.

Beneath the excitement of travel was a core of sadness, knowing this would become the memory of a place he’d seen for the last time.

The annual reenactment of Trump stealing the baby Jesus.

We had no money then, and what little we had we spent on drugs. Back when we were still friends. Before I annoyed you, and my hair looked like shit.

Let it go. The world doesn’t need another photograph.

The hero dies at the beginning of the journey
and realizes it at the end.

August in the city when nobody gives a fuck anymore.

I’ve seen you puke a thousand times. All through the nineties when we went out drinking five nights a week—I can’t remember a single one that didn’t end with your chunks on my chucks.  Were you my friend? I put up with you. And now, ridiculously, you’re a republican. I demand reparations.

She was certain she had some form of body dysmorphic disorder, but not of its exact nature. Was she prettier than she feared, or uglier? Fatter, or thinner?

Our survival rests on the memory that there was something called light; and upon inwardly kindling a vestige of what may have existed.

After his underappreciated 1967 lp “Blowin’ a Hole thru the Center of your Mind” he disappeared from public view. When he was discovered in a mental care facility 30 years later, he appeared not to have aged a day.

I think about the beach cottage we always rented the first week or two of August. The photograph I took each day, hoping to preserve it all. The older couple we saw every year, who we never saw again. The roadside farm where we bought eggs, vegetables and topnecks. I wonder if the same books are on the shelves. I wonder if it has crumbled into the sea.

The warm cascade of neurotransmitters he received from making false promises dwarfed the inevitable damage to its recipients. That may even have been some of its appeal.

It took him a while to realize that what he thought of as ‘acting like a jerk’ was what other people called ‘being a jerk.’

Driving back, you remember the hopeful innocent you were just a week ago, still on your way. 

Richter painting in a starched white shirt—is he just fucking with my OCD?

When someone tells you ‘it is what it is’,
what they really mean is ‘fuck you.’

Whatever; if you say so. I grew up poor and afraid. I believe you more than I believe myself.

Something else you said… it left a bad feeling. I’m trying to remember what it was. I meant to get back to it—on account of not wanting my emotions to send destructive signals to my body. Like right now, I’m… rather than letting go, I’m nursing my resentment, which if I’m not careful—
Cancer.
Bingo. Or ignoring it—
Auto-immune.
Exactly. Which leaves us…
Heart attack—of course.

Bad day.
Wait it out.
Stay within yourself.
It’s a long season.

You find yourself, at age 38, in possession of an “artistic personality” without the accompanying talent, skill, discipline, or intelligence. In short, an asshole.

He was on best behaviour, but as it turned out, that wasn’t good enough.

Love of jargon, inversely proportional to love of truth.

Nicotine chapstick.

You’ve done your market research and you’ve ended up with your great big pile of shit.

keep your head down
don’t draw attention to yourself
expect nothing
try to avoid being an asshole

A few weeks after moving in, we finally realized what had been bothering us: all of the fixtures were several inches lower than normal, as if designed for children.

My grandfather’s revolver is in the lower left hand drawer of my desk, hidden under some old papers and artwork. I keep the bullets in a cigar box under the bed. Is there a “use by” date on bullets? They must be at least 50 years old.
·
A few times a month I take the empty gun from the drawer and hold it to my temple. If someone asked why, I’d probably come up with something about “clearing the mind.” The truth is, I just like the way it feels.
·
Last week for the first time I took a bullet from the cigar box, loaded it into the chamber and gave it a spin before holding the gun to my head. I can’t describe the surge of adrenaline as I visualized pulling the trigger.

Auction Highlights: Aside from a significant amount of water damage, bullet holes and general wear, the painting is not of particular interest.

He may have been a shit, but he objected to the word “total.”

Daily hair report: not good.
Tomorrow’s forecast: not good.

Obituary
In the mid-eighties he appeared in a series of unnamed minor roles in second-tier John Hughes movies. His credit was always listed as “popped collar.”

I’ve been very bitter, and there’ve been times when I’ve been on the brink of closing down and walking away, disappearing into the woods.—Merle Haggard

The possibility of something else entirely.
To be nothing. To be as nothing.

A social media tool that annihilates all trace of your existence.

You’ve won, we have no fight left, it’s your world, which is nothing, less than nothing, welcome to it.

In the entire history of humankind, we have come up with only three names for tuxedo cats: mittens, socks, and domino.

The generative power of creation is limitless and inexhaustible, but I am limited—and exhausted.

4 am—
What genius first put together the words CIRCLING THE DRAIN?

Popular culture has been slowly preparing us for an unbearable future.

Other worlds they have not told you of, that wish to speak to you.
—Herman Poole Blount

A vulgar preference for the novel over the good.

His quest to reduce expression to its essence eventually reduced it to nothing.

The only cure for past and future: the present.

Someone reports that Jeff Goldblum is dining at the Griddle Cafe. He is wearing mirrored sunglasses. Someone asks how tan he is.

A pet hummingbird to sit on your shoulder.

A belief system that requires a system probably isn’t a belief.

Years later he finally learned to appreciate the flavor of the shit sandwich.

Alone in his hotel room he wrote:
I am strong. I am unafraid.
He took a sip of his drink and added:
I am over it.
He sat back and looked at what he had written.
None of it was true.
But for the first time in years, it could have been.

A late summer afternoon that already feels over. There was a life here, wasn’t there? You can almost still hear it. A wedding; you gave a speech that left no impression. This is how it will be after you’re gone. As if it never happened.

His last words were, does fish sauce go in the refrigerator, but she didn’t hear them. She was in the shower.

With age you become invisible to increasing portions of the population; in compensation, you begin to see them more clearly.

Standing at the back window, sipping coffee and watching the traffic light change colors in the rain. Your world is coming back to you. Soon it will all be too much—but for now you’re grateful.

First he went into an elder care facility, then she. Their daughter visited a few days a week, often crying on the drive home. And then one day they were simply gone. They were found three months later, wandering the streets of Paris, holding hands without knowing who or where they were.
·
That, it would seem, would be love.

It’s bad, and it hasn’t even gotten bad yet.

He told me that when his drinking was at its worst, the only thing that kept him from suicide was the thought he’d never be able to have another one.

After his death many of his journal and notebook entries were found to have the notation “FE.” His final post, in its entirety, was “failed experiment.”

It’s simple, but it’s not easy.

He comes to in the bathtub with no memory of how he got there. He looks in her eyes and sees pity and fear. Has this happened before? Has he already asked her this? Eventually he retains her answers, hanging on like a drowning man, terrified she’ll let go.

Be the sound, not the hearing
The breath, not the breathing
The wind…
Did that work for you?
For a while.

The things you joke about during the day can fill you with dread in the middle of the night.

Fragments, the only things that hold together.

In retrospect, you never had a chance. You didn’t have the resources. You didn’t have the tools. And as you feel yourself going under, you just want to sleep.

Public servants selflessly dedicated to destroying as many lives as possible.

Professional artist: someone whose profession it is to be known as an artist.

If one more subscription card falls out of this magazine, I’m going fucking ballistic.

The entire universe is made of sub-atomic particles.
Actually, just one particle, moving very fast.
The particle is getting old. The particle is wearing out. At first the disappearances are so small you don’t notice them. And then one day the color blue is gone, and you wonder if it ever existed to begin with.
I want my blue back.

On Sunday night he put on his work suit and sat in a chair until dawn.

With a shocking lack of hesitation, she was gone. In an instant he had been turned inside out and left there, a pile of guts on the sidewalk.
It would have been a year in May, hey hey hey.

It had taken her three days to process his words, and now she couldn’t breathe. It was like she was drowning—drowning in air.

In LA the bottom finally dropped out—a numbing sequence of brilliant days, synaptic movies printed on his retinas, but underneath, blackness. He’d read somewhere that the self was an illusion. This was good news.

I keep thinking if we could just, like in Brazil or the Philippines… the workings of an entire society based on dream interpretation.
Not try anything. I think I’d be much happier that way.
If you could attain the ideal vibrational state… I’m thinking of that ice you get toward the end of winter. Little piles left over from the piles that melted. Inert little piles that just hang around.
In this state, ideally, one could absorb any number of blows to the face.
·
If you could learn to just hang around; go with it; wait and find out. Like that woman who built an entire miniature town out of cooked turkey neck bones. Prior to this she’d been very depressed; not dressing nicely; not keeping up appearances and so forth. And I don’t know, somehow this turned out to be the one, right thing for her.
I love shit like that.
In the coming year, I think maybe something could happen for me. Something not bad. But only if I don’t want it too much.
It would have to come unbidden.

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)

The fire came up the hill faster than I could have imagined.
It was already in the house.
·
Three feet of snow in June.
·
All trace of your existence will be wiped from the face of the earth.

All music will eventually be drumming.

The promise of the future has receded into the distant past.

The cat who joins you at the back window to watch squirrels on the lawn; the dog who briefly rests his head on your lap on the bench in front of the food co-op; the toddler one table over, offering her bottle to you—all touchingly unaware of what a shit you are.

Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street? Can we go back together, one of you still holding my hand, the other still on my shoulder, vanishing around an invisible corner, down a leafy suburban street? I am weeping as I type this. You were Snuffy and I was the Count. The sky was a blue that no longer exists. I want my blue back.

What doesn’t kill you makes you older.

Liked, respected, trusted, admired—
Those are off the table, I’m afraid…
Feared?
(embarrassed cough)
Tolerated?
We might be able to work with that.

Sitting in a lawn chair with a glass of warm gin, watching tornado devastation on tv. Kind of looks familiar. Kind of looks like you.

He said, we don’t use “food colors” for culinary enterprises, or “asian” typefaces for asian ones. That would be akin to performing in drag. We use food-adjacent colors.

He spent the entire two-hour mindfulness seminar contemplating the drink he would have after.

The solipsistic awfulness of the selfie gaze,
as perceived by its intended recipients.

She was his truth, his bellwether and moral compass. Without her he was lost, but also he was just plain lost.

The collection exclusively featured images of mayhem and disaster.

The sole perspective that I may have, that you may not have, in your privileged existence, is of time.

I don’t even look in the mirror—why would I take a selfie?

Last night, the most wonderful dream: Dad still alive. It was all a mistake after all. He was standing in a sunny field. Tears streamed down my face. He smiled and held out his hand. He said: turn off your television. Stop your drinking. Put aside the things that do you no good.
·
Woke suddenly. Ringing in ears. Shortness of breath. Pain in chest, jaw, upper arm. Poured drink. Turned on television. Acceptance.

If people keep asking if you’re ok, you start getting the idea you might not be.

Attempting to escape the feeling is worse than the feeling itself.

To the few who were aware of his existence he was a joke or a disappointment. He’d relinquished the burden of expectation. He was in the wind. He was traveling light.

Although he thought of himself as a “regular” there, he always had to wait to be seated. One night as the hostess went looking for his table, he snuck a look at the note next to his reservation. It said asshole.

Parked in front of a liquor store, a Titus Andronicus 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 no in-between.

In the dream he caught the eye of someone who seemed familiar, a trusted friend of long ago or a forgotten family member, only to realize with a shock that it was a younger, kinder version of himself—a version he’d forgotten had ever existed. Describing it to them, he suddenly burst into tears. He said that three days after the dream his depression had lifted. The dream seemed rather obvious, he said, but the mind likes obvious. Obvious works.

Is the thought worth the effort it would take to express itself in words?

For a short time you get a free pass,
but then the shit starts to hit the fan.

It was the shortest day of the year and somewhere along the way the bottom had dropped out.

Not really a grid, but grid-signifying ornamentation.

A listing vessel with a massive hole in its bow, drifting at sea. That is me, he thought—miraculously still afloat.

The criterion by which any activity must be judged: would you rather be asleep?

Washington DC Hospital Center Blues

Petty irritants you will treasure on your deathbed: morning airport smell of coffee, jet fuel, passenger body functions.

She was eager to talk about the most fascinating person she had ever met, herself.

Fathers, sons, baseball: bad movies

When someone says, ‘People either love me or they hate me,’ it’s usually the latter.

She had hung on by a thread, but it was an unbreakable one.

Two and a half drinks in, trying to build a fire the way his father did, cursing, hating himself.

Fourteen year old girl, April 19, 2009
Today is Thursday. I saw my therapist. We doubled the dosage.
All I can think is one more time from the beginning.

He had developed a theory of literature based on cockney rhyming slang. His final work was entitled “Gertrude,” but the book contained no person or thing of that name.

Yesterday Doeg and I went to our special place—to the little dirt area beside the tree. Because of allergies, Doeg has chewed off most of his hair. On the way home, heard a young mother say to baby: look, honey, look at the pretty—recoiling as Doeg emerged from behind the car. Still thinking about the look on his face: apologetic.

The older couple at the next table, whose lingering self regard stems from the memory that they were considered beautiful three or four decades ago.

The Steiner-Rand hierarchy of acceptance
+3. Reverence
+2. Gratitude
+1. Acceptance
+0. Indifference
–1. Resignation
–2. Resentment
–3. Bitterness

Your long-awaited genius grant; your self-designed modernist house; your late career retrospective; your fond encomiums from friends and colleagues: zero, nada, zippo, zilch.

The personal quirks you’d hoped were endearing turn out to be profoundly irritating to the people around you.

More often now he reached for words but found only word-shaped holes, filling them with sadness, anguish, rage, and dread.

Dignity, a fiction.

Self-loathing had almost cured him of hubris.

The fecal transplant/medically induced coma hybrid is the future of healthcare.

This just in: internet preferable to all previous human endeavor.

 “I have a Russian soul” = code for “I drink a lot”

Cocktails on the lawn, alone.

Visualize your safe place.
I can’t think of one.

A cataclysmic burst of electromagnetic energy destroys every digital photograph on the planet.

Another evening of mutual assured destruction.

In compensation for his collapsing dignity and self respect he found himself engaged in escalating acts of grandiose generosity. 

In the dream a doctor told me I was going blind. I ran out into the street, just seeing.
In total, these pictures represent three seconds of my life. Maybe some day you’ll find them. My three seconds. My last will and testament.

Which is less unthinkable—the idea of returning to the beginning, and having to live through it all once more, or being at the end, and never doing it again?

1)   no “rocking out”
2)  no Americanisms

(Seeing it down on paper, it all seems a bit juvenile.)

In the new America it’s always 2 am.

Life happened; he never knew what hit him.

When you see someone you know on the street do you:
1) make contact
2) avoid contact
·
When you’re in front of a mirror, do you:
1) look
2) avoid looking

He spent most his time sleeping in the patch of sun where the driveway met the lawn. Almost free.

The things you joke about during the day can fill you with horror in the middle of the night.

Apparently it’s The Summer of Josh Brolin. If one is to fully engage in contemporary life, one needs to grapple with the notion of Josh Brolin-ness.

Painkiller—what a beautiful word.

1) artworks you have ruined with personal associations:

Hell is other people’s nostalgia.

Photography, simultaneously the most self-effacing and self-aggrandizing medium.

51/49, 50% of the time.

US has developed the driverless presidency.

Going through her things, they came upon a note.
The note said: I’d kill for a cigarette, or half an hour of sleep.

You spy your father at the Whole Foods, sitting on a lawn chair under a tree. When you ride by hours later, he is still there, chatting with the parking lot attendant. A regular. When did he become the old guy in the baseball cap, talking to anyone who will listen? And what did you think he did with his days?
Not lonely, after all. Brave.

What’s really being said is what’s been left unsaid.

Things considered, not things concluded.

Reflected in the cafe window he saw a man who had clearly let himself go; of whom no one would take second notice, nor guess at his former imagined glories.

Sunday morning: half dead but fully alive.

Four deer corpses on the road to Bethlehem.
Wildlife suicide in the new America.

He still has the dream in which he’s continued working on his long-abandoned novel and only now, after all these years, realizes he will have to start over. He always wakes with a heaviness in his chest. It wasn’t until after his father died that he recognized the feeling. He’d always sensed life had a plan for him, and he’d been right. There just aren’t any words for it.

Others experienced his presence as an absence in themselves.

He got out of bed only when the need for coffee outweighed the pain of existence.

Glimpsed in a reflection, he saw himself as he must look to the world: bewildered, as if expecting a final blow to the head.

Drifting off to sounds of birds, or the wind, or cooking in the kitchen.

The only sure method for clearing the mind has unacceptable side effects.

Every time you use a smart device you become a little more stupid.

You fail to avoid an old coworker on street, and just shake your head in greeting. It’s been that kind of year.

Hell on Earth:
1) TED talk about one-man show
2) one-man show about TED talk

 She was rich in spirit, but mainly just rich.

Sooner or later, one way or another, the workplace will steal your dignity.

Bottom line for a majority of the planet? If it’s bearable, that’s a win.

Over the course of one sunny afternoon a stately ice shelf the size of Connecticut breaks loose and collapses into the ocean. You are dispersing. You have entered the floe.

1) thought
2) first draft
3) revision
4) deletion

Bliss: cessation of effort.

Leaving a loved place for what is probably the last time. A place that already exists primarily in memory. There are no more fraught and melancholy words than next year.

Art isn’t of crucial importance, until it no longer exists.

Book II:
After the booze ran out.

After his death even his journals were found to consist of vague, ambiguous and purposely misleading statements.

He’d crossed the barrier, he was inside the song.

The present you ignore eventually becomes the past you cling to.

Possibility without expectation.

Woke up this morning and nearly wept at how lifelike everything was. Picked up a handful of dirt and just looked at it. I picked it up for you.
Every day I wake up to eternity. Tell me if I should keep writing,

This is the only place on earth where I have final say.

Maximum number of sounds heard simultaneously:

Saw someone on the street and wondered if she was about the age our girl would be now.
I thought this might be what she would have looked like.
·
If—what a word that is.
You know those movies with large, boisterous families who get together at the summer place, or at the old homestead for Christmas? What a pile of shit those are.

The story of a blogger, who blogged himself to death.

Approaching the age of his father’s death, and exhibiting all of his worst traits and none of the good, he understood that the rest of his life was to be an experiment without an easy conclusion.

After years of struggle, he finally broke through the glass floor.

His electricity was shut off for non-payment on the hottest night of the year. The beer and vodka would stay cold for a few more hours. He held a bottle against his forehead and gave thanks for this small miracle.

Life gave him poison and he made poison kool aid.

 {German word for missing something before it’s gone}

The holidays, and with them, his annual despair.

Least favorite word: trending.

Life had once again forced an unscheduled change of attitude.

At closing time we patched our wounds, finished our drinks and headed into the summer night.

Powerlessness is next to godliness.

If we admitted how terrifying life is,
would we need more drugs, or less?

Second saddest thing in the world: letting go.

The illusion of control is the source of untold human misery.

Becoming good at something is a kind of loss.

Think about the meaning of any words long enough, and you will lose your mind.

Yesterday: the temperature dropped to 97—the 42nd straight day it has topped 90 degrees.
Metropolitan Forecast: Intense heat and humidity will prevail once again across the region. Wednesday will continue hot and humid. Readings near 100 degrees. Thurs, same. Fri, same.
Horoscope: The best of all worlds may be offered to you soon

2 – 4 am. Waiting for death, hoping for sleep.

Coercive language that engenders unconscious resistance, for instance, employing the word “usually” instead of “often.”

Everyone is alone in the new America.

Your waking mindset has gradually destabilized your dreams, and now your dreams have returned the favor. Each morning you wake up wondering if this is the day you begin to find your way back.

He had lately been spending as much time as possible in the company of animals. No animal had ever ridiculed him, nor regarded him with pity, scorn, or disappointment. Well, possibly disappointment. He could live with that.

Who knew frontal lobe dementia would resonate so clearly with the American electorate?

Things to avoid: mirrors, clocks.

Tonight R. called from California. He was shouting over loud voices and sounds of things breaking. I mentioned a dream about Dad. Somehow R. seemed embarrassed by this confidence. He quickly changed the subject to an incident in high school when someone had blamed him for something he hadn’t done. After all these years, he still seemed pissed off about it.
·
He gave me a toll-free number for government auctions of cars and boats confiscated from drug dealers. Mercedes $300. BMW $250. He seemed unnaturally concerned that I write it down.
·
Later it occurred to me: R. doing coke again?

In the future, kimchi will be the only currency.

Advertising speaks to fear while promoting the illusion of its absence.

Apple is saving all the good stuff for the 10th anniversary of the iPhone. Also, there will be a new, good ending to Apocalypse Now.

Only through cat gifs can we subdue our fear of death.

February in the city, when nobody gives a fuck anymore.

People described as “lighting up the room.” You are not one of those.

a man
a plan
diazepam

Alcohol consumption had erased much of his memory, but not enough of it.

Your thoughts and words become your prison walls.
Luckily someone has left the key.

Night lifts over another sleepless dawn, unloosing a cacophony of birds in their vast canopy. Wordless. Hallelujah.

He found himself in that most human condition, afraid.

A novel, left along a road, picked apart by crows.

Time reveals in some the bowling ball-head gene, and in others the cinderblock-head gene.

The billion flinches that rebuilt your face.

Dinner with an old friend and his younger wife. She is lovely and shy, and in compensation you are more outgoing than usual. As you launch into another story about your friend as you knew him in college, a look passes between them and he squeezes her hand. You realize that her reticence is actually boredom and that dinner is, for them, an obligation to be endured as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Opinions—where observations go to die.

He received the crushing news with a resignation born of decades of unrealized hopes.

She said, normally people at this level of impairment are dead by your age. Your achievement is unprecedented. You are the Bob Beamon of depression.

Visible: not a good look for me.

Bombast: thoughts and images too great for subject.
Paralysis:

What would you do if you could go back in time?
Probably die of embarrassment.

A feral hyena pack in a feeding frenzy, heads buried up to the neck in carcass of the New America.

Increasingly, he’d been thinking about simplifying his life.
Increasingly, he’d been thinking about drinking.

Writing about photography—more about writing than photography.

Options for aging designers:
1) white jeans/looking like douche
2) design blog/looking like douche
3) gallery show/looking like douche
4) surfing/looking like douche
5) teaching/being douche

The manicured grounds masked an eroding social fabric.

After years of rigorously eliminating everything pretentious, self-serving or inauthentic in his character, he realized there was nothing left.

Suffering has made you ugly, which is beautiful.

It was the summer of fentanyl-laced heroin.

One afternoon as he was stealing wifi behind the public library a dog ran by and licked his hand. Later he realized that in those 15 seconds he already loved the dog more than he would ever love himself.

Everything is of its time. How glorious; what a pity.

There’s the chair she sat in, facing the door, hoping for a visit.

It somehow works itself out, or ends in disaster.

Number one problem facing humanity: irony.

The new merged corporation will be headquartered everywhere and will cut 100% of its workforce.

Realization: you’ll never get those days back again.
Realization: you don’t want to.

Every human relationship poses the question,
“which of us is the crazy one?”

Of how you spent the night, waking in the vestibule of a strange apartment building an hour before work, no memory remains. You call in sick for the fifth time in a month.
·
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 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 at last.

Your search—iceberg + ronson lighter + beefheart—did not match any documents.

By April, life has killed you.

Looking for the few right words that will fix everything.
Maybe next time.

A ghost in a dream in a story by an anonymous author on a deactivated account of a defunct social media platform.

Please, Lord, don’t make me have to be interesting today.

an hour of sleep.
an unencumbered breath.
a clean bill of health.
a kind word.
another chance.

We are required to assume the psychological burdens of our economic benefactors.

Au revoir, motherfucker.

Each time he stayed inside, each time he didn’t answer the phone or the door, each time he refrained from speaking, he told himself, little by little, I’m making the world a better place.

Posting food on instagram = act of public defecation.

He said that the better you got to know someone, the less you liked them. Animals were the opposite. Of course, you could never really know anyone. Each human being inhabited a vast chasm that could never be filled. The best you could manage was a few shovelfuls of dirt, ten miles away and ten miles down.

Compassion—the only way back.

Surrounded by chaos and devastation, he felt at ease. His inner and outer worlds had reached equilibrium

Notes, 4 am
1) the past is a hallucination
2) worst possible combination: eternal life, no god

Decomposed roadkill, returned to earth after months as public spectacle, I salute you.

Other people present an unflattering mirror.

He’d always believed you made your own luck, until his luck ran out.

Her family was small and she had no real friends. She supposed that if her parents had thought about it they would have considered her a disappointment. Yet somehow her heart was still bursting with the sadness and joy of living, a sensation so painful that she sought oblivion by any means available.

Thirty years after the loss of their son they still look for him in restaurants—the man at the corner table, laughing with his beautiful wife, waiting for someone to join them.

He was in a dark place. Actually, a black hole.

For the third time in as many months, the man at the body shop presented my repairs with an understated flourish. “It’s just like you have a brand new car,” he said. And I thought, how many times in life do you get to start over, as if nothing had ever happened?

So much gravitas, I can’t get out of bed.

The inexplicable burst of popularity he had enjoyed in his youth dissipated quickly as his contempt for his audience became all too obvious.

Layers to cover your ruined body, dark glasses for your ruined eyes.

When he stepped out to get the paper the sun was shining, and for the first time in months he realized he wasn’t scared. Maybe this was how it was for people. Maybe this was what he could hope for.

The way I like to look at a photograph is to imagine that the person who took it knew that this was the last thing they would ever see.

If I had to pick just one word? Tired.

Were you a person of consequence?
Were you even a person?
Did you learn anything?
Was there still hope?
·
Nope, no, nyet, maybe.

So tired, sleep is an exertion.

In her twenties she was pretty, by her thirties beautiful. And now, finally, she was as ugly as she’d always felt.

Affliction and disease present the greatest advertising opportunity in the history of mankind.

I sought a mix of choiceless documentation, deadpan observation, dark hilarity, seething rage, devastating sorrow and staggering beauty. Have I failed?

And then, gradually, fear becomes your way of life.

Was it a dream you once liked and respected me? Or maybe I once respected myself. But I won’t give up—I will wait here forever, in this chair, in the dark, with my good friend you haven’t yet met, the cat, Lord Cuntfordshire, in his kingly raiment.

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.

When does “verge of collapse” become actual collapse?

They mourned their loss and then lived in its ashes.

He documented his slow decline into madness with a series of photographic self portraits, continuing until the day he no longer recognized himself.

He’d been waiting for a long time to hit bottom—apparently you get a small bounce at the end.

By the time you get her attention, the bartender already seems annoyed. You’re getting that a lot lately. You expect it, really. You give her a short nod, turn and head out into the rain. You’re coming down with your third cold of the season and there seems to be something wrong with your legs. Your father died 20 years ago today. The earnest, dignified man you remember could be your brother now. Limping home in your wet coat, almost comical in your desolation, you wonder. In 20 years, will anyone raise a toast in your memory?

Smart kid, no longer young.

Art that withholds its methods or motives, or is a result of a process unrelated to the final result, or has a clever title that provokes in the viewer an unexpected reassessment, or which through a brutal economy of means affects a disproportionate response, or is so unapologetically stupid that it makes intelligence, craft or elegance seem frivolous.

He sat reading in the darkening room. The book was a true account of an unschooled man who’d devised his own system of mathematics based on a series of dreams. The man in the book believed this knowledge had come from God.
·
He was reading the book with a flashlight because the electricity had been turned off. He put the book aside and took another sip of gin. If only God would tell him what to do. It wouldn’t even need to be God—any benevolent spirit, living or dead, would be welcome.

It will need to be a spectacular dawn, because it’s really dark right now.

Old pictures of your family. Who were they? Who were you? No fucking idea.

Certainty, in inverse proportion to intelligence.

Watching your neighbor doing Sunday yard work you can almost see the self-righteous thought bubbles about the value of hard work floating above his head, played in his dad’s voice.

Obsolescence never goes out of style

God always has a plan, and that plan is for random stuff to happen.

Figuratively speaking, he hit the windshield.
Figuratively speaking, it took weeks to clean him off.

With art, he said, it’s not the thing that’s the thing, it’s the thing behind the thing.

It is the theory which decides what we can observe.—AE

“Poland was a rainy place with a lot of crows, man, and it was beautiful.”

An injured animal under a bush, conserving strength for the struggle ahead.

What were thought to be diseases turned out to be the body’s unsuccessful attempts at healing.

I think I can safely say, with great pleasure, your best days are well behind you.

The few minutes each evening this time of year when the back windows flood with wild monkey light and birdcalls echo through the trees. Something in you lifts and you feel the heaviness of who you are, and the burden you have placed upon yourself and those around you.

He is survived by his twitter feed and beloved iTunes playlist.

When the anguish of youth meets the resignation of age.

A few more moments of oblivion
before facing it all.

 In your selfie face I see only pain.

Life is a process of coming to grips with your own hair.

I recall with nostalgia when the center could not hold; now there is no center.

That couple holding court over there, accomplished, attractive, older (my age?), she a composer and head of a department (the Composition Department, I would guess, if there is such a thing) and he a well-known painter, portraits of John Coltrane on black velvet, in kingly dress—I’d assumed undertaken with some irony, but having once mentioned this in his presence and receiving an embarrassed smile, as if he was embarrassed for me, apparently some internalized form of post-ironic sincerity.
When I am forced upon their radar, they regard me with a vague distaste that doesn’t quite come up to the level of dislike. I’ll show you later on—if we walk in that direction, the flurry of minute physical adjustments as they calculate whether they can safely avoid us without personal discomfort. Since the accident I’ve been pleased to detect a new note of fear in their uneasiness, as if I now represent the additional possibility of freakish misfortune that might befall anyone, no matter how charmed or lucky.
·
I bring this up because I owe my newfound awareness to you, the last time we met, when you mentioned that for you it would be hell on earth to know what other people really think of you. The way you said it, though, I got the impression that you really meant it would be hell on earth for me, and I haven’t been able to shake it.

Life stages
1) unfolding
2) refolding

Sleep—when there’s nowhere else to go.

Today as I rounded the bend into the clearing I ran into J with his three little dogs. I hadn’t seen him in two years. As I raised my hand in greeting it became obvious he didn’t know who I was. At first I guessed two more years of drinking and medications might finally have finished off his memory, but now, thinking of his uncharacteristically clear eyes and almost sheepish demeanor, as if presenting himself too nakedly to the world, I think he was sober. He was sober, while I was still in the fog. When I asked how long they were staying, he was evasive. I don’t blame him. If I ran into me, I’d avoid myself, too.

Beneath the unceasing parade of brightly colored images, blackness.

What are you looking for?
Just a glimpse. 

Sunday morning, 11:15. You see her out front with a drink and a cigarette, gazing idly at the trees, in love with this life and the pleasures that will shorten it.

The best thing about God was all the money.

We finally came to the end of big, dumb ideas.

symptom: fatigue
diagnosis: fatigue

I was feeling pretty shit. Like I had cancer and didn’t know it, or was about to lose my mind. Ever feel that way? Like you have cancer, and don’t know it, or are about to lose your mind? Also, I couldn’t get that song out of my head.

He remembered the results of a study finding that over 50% of people you consider friends don’t reciprocate. Although in his case this was more or less irrelevant, he still found it depressing.

What differentiates man from animal: vulgarity.

Rumors of his drowning turn out to be false; after five years of despair he reappears in Southern California to deliver a series of talks before again disappearing. Writing in her journal a woman in attendance describes him as “bathed in jesus light”.

It took years to understand how short a year is.

You used to drink in order to relax. Now you drink in order to drink.

The situation was fluid. Which was to say, he’d been drinking a lot.

That was one of the years I thought I was dying. I took solace in listening to Forever Changes, which Arthur Lee reportedly wrote under the mistaken impression that he had contracted a fatal illness. I look back on this period with immense nostalgia.

Fundamental error: evaluation of others extrapolated from personal circumstance.

In the daytime you cling to life with fierce desperation, but you often go to bed not caring if you ever wake up.

It’s amazing how far an attractive avatar can take you today’s world.

Passing the funeral parade, he noticed a woman in dark glasses stopped at a red light, weeping without consolation or restraint. How he envied that dead man.

Although he had longed for it, after retiring from teaching and moving to a house in the woods, he became severely depressed. The diagnosis: loss of horizon.

A lot of what is called low self-esteem is simply seeing yourself as others do.

Scientists first noted a sharp rise in animal suicides in early 2012.

We were somewhere in California. Obama was staying with us. It was understood that the modesty of our accommodations wasn’t a problem, now that he was no longer president. He looked 30 years younger than when we had last seen him. How we had missed him! I commented on what a tremendous relief it must be to be out of office. Even though we had been friends for years, I felt formal and self-conscious addressing him. 
·
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.

He had recently noticed that the act of shampooing also kept his fingernails clean. In this way a glance at his hands provided immediate feedback as to the condition of his hair.
Currently: not good

He’d limited himself to taking only extraordinary pictures—and hadn’t taken one since.

Average photographer + average writer + below average illustrator = good designer

The evenings are black and the mornings cold and grey. The only way forward is through it. You’re going to need a little patience. A little humility. A little faith. A little courage. And a little gratitude.

Stock characters:
1) man with gangrenous wound.

Their language has been eradicated, but their food remains.

The house is quiet and cold. The washing machine has stopped working, joining the dead car battery, the leak in the roof, and the broken back window covered with cardboard. You sleep in the dark in the blue chair where, in happier times, your cat, Lord Cuntfordshire, once joined you. You have become a joke variant of a Hank Williams song, as interpreted by BJ Thomas.
·
Maybe the worst is over.

Everything you think, feel, and say, compounded daily.

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

He didn’t want to be that guy who didn’t want to be that guy.

Things you thought were important turned out not to be important.
Things you thought were not important turned out to be important.

Exquisite language that only calls attention to itself.

An unfortunate sequence of poor decisions had brought him here, to this chair, in the dark, unable to feel his feet.

Strolling my country estate at dawn, assessing last night’s damage. In the driveway, the burnt out husk of my beloved white 1972 Dodge Polara, crushed as if dropped nose first from a crane; in the fountain, two white swans, dead from apparent malnutrition; on my hands, two blood-caked bandages. Opposable thumbs: the last thing separating man from animal.

The poignance of the indoor cat who finally gets out on Christmas.

Except as a referendum on current trends, he barely existed.

A four-way tie between sadness, fear, anger, and hope.

He was hanging by a thread; he felt as though he would disintegrate in a light breeze.

They expected nothing, which wasn’t enough, for which they were grateful.

The kind of fuckup that’s so bad, that even if you know you didn’t fuck it up, you still worry that you were somehow the one who fucked it up.

She was everything everyone hated about the baby boomers.

He recognized nothing of himself in photographs or in the impressions he made upon others.

You start preparing for the death of your parents but you never really get there.

With age he bore an increasing air of anger and resentment, as if unconsciously expressing the collective protest of dying cells.

Things seem to be picking up at the shop.
Three jobs today.
Total billable hours: .75.
Thy will be done.

When I was about ten years old my Grandfather told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said that whenever he was going through something painful or unpleasant he always reminded himself, it’s what you deserve, you miserable piece of shit, and that always made him feel better. I used to wonder why that made him feel better, but think I’m starting to get it now.

I’ve reached a late August level of nihilism,
and it’s only the first week in July.

He hangs on to his beloved hat long after forgetting he once wore it with irony.

Dry leaves clatter across the driveway. School supplies. Football. Death.

Pity, that is to say, empathy tinged with ridicule.

Distributorship killed the authorship star.

Normally he anticipated this cold black season with dread, but this year it suited him. He expected nothing else. It was what he deserved. He was locked in for the siege.

The structure of the language reveals what it has attempted to conceal.

Mobile medical clinics: healthcare analog to food trucks?

Later he would remember this as his Year of Watching Tennis. He didn’t particularly like or understand tennis. In fact, he found it boring. But little by little, hearing the ball bounce back and forth, he felt his mind putting itself back together.

Brick painted the color of brick, an object turned into a sign.

When agency people talk about Big Ideas, rest assured that none are coming.