Thursday, June 3

Last night I sat in the couch in the living room while my room mates had a conversation on one side and an episode of The West Wing for which I had no context ran on the television. I kept switching my attention to one stream of information, only to have it quietly repossessed by the other a few minutes later. On one side, someone was going to censure the President - the one played by Martin Sheen, the one who makes fiction seem so much saner than politics circa now. On the other side, someone had still been really drunk at 5 a.m. and had to work at 8, and fried food was the best after a night like that. I had to agree. When I finally left, Reservoir Dogs was just getting bloody, but they'd cut out a lot of instances of "fuck".

I found myself in that state of mind where every sound is crisp and distinct, with weight, like being in a professionally edited scene where the footstep noises are made by a guy hunched over a box of sand and some woodblocks.

Some time after midnight, I piled eight notebooks, two sketchbooks, and a couple of folders on the floor of my apartment (because my writing table is covered in books and candleholders and things). I paid special attention to the way they sounded when I picked them up. I sat and looked at them for a while. I rearranged them, then rummaged around in bookshelves and under my bed to make sure there weren't any more. I walked to the kitchen and ate half a jar of apple sauce. When I came back, they were still there.

And I thought this is it. Everything of any value, excepting about four dozen letters and some electronic text, which I have written in the last four years.

It isn't much. It's probably too late to stop anyway.