The midday sun is shining. The world is warm, all humming with verdure. Everyone has moments: this is one of mine. The world is warm, all rippling with verdure. Everyone has stories: this is one of mine. //

We sat beside the fountain on the grass, in a rough approximation of a circle. E--- sat to my left. Her skirts were spread wide around her, so she seemed to hover centered within a broader sea of herself. Her pale hair glinted lamplike as she laughed at something D--- was saying. F--- was on my right talking - explaining - earnest - overbearing - about - what was is? The price of - ? The nature of - ? But of what? to me, perhaps? or to P---?

But I wasn't listening. The world was so warm. It was so lush. It filled me so full that I didn't have room for anything more specific than impression. We sat there in our circle. We reclined - photosynthesized - dissolved - until finally the bells rang the hour.

"It is time," said the bells. "It is time."

I smiled into the circle like the hand of a clock, like the shadow of a sundial.

"It is time," I said. "Let us begin." //

10.23.2020 (DAY 2, STORY 8, TAKE 4)

People are able to enter rooms so quickly and simply. It is comforting and discomfiting all at once, like knowing someone you like has seen you eat jello.

10.22.2020 JOSEPH BAZALGETTE (1819-1891)

Everything went wrong.

10.18.2020 (DAY 3.5)

Days flow together in continuous pursuit.


I am on the edge of something.
Last night I sat naked in bed thinking about birds, and about ships, and about whether I'll be beautiful when I grow up.
Everything is dissolved.


Once, a few years back, I got lost in the supermarket. I walked in to buy something specific (A sweet potato? A cabbage?) to make something specific (A soup? A stir-fry?), but never made it past the produce section.

The incident was without doubt my fault. "You have to set out early," they'd said, "or you risk not making it through the mountains before the snows start." "You have to set out early," they'd said. "Or you're setting yourself up for failure. You can't round the Cape during storm season." I hadn't listened. Hubris, doubtless.

And so I set off, mid-October. I got to the grocery store. The sliding doors slid open. I slid through the sliding doors and they slid closed behind me. I took a basket: I was buying something specific to make something specific, and did not need the optimistic capacity of a shopping cart.

I made it through the tomatoes ok, and through the apples and the parsley. I made it past the garlic just fine. I believe I made my first wrong turn near the squash. There were too many kinds of squash -- they all looked heavy, they all looked weighty and nonspecific. I thought about buying a butternut squash, but I did not buy a butternut squash.

By this time, I had drifted too far off my charted course. The squash aisle! The squash isle! The Isle of Squash! I hadn't brought my compass (hubris, doubtless) and I have never learned to navigate by the stars. This is one of my many shortcomings -- that is to say -- that I can't navigate by the stars, and never could.

The men from the ship found me days later, floating aimlessly near shoals of frozen halibut and deveined shrimp. How far I had drifted! How lucky that they found me! How lucky I was to be found! I was, to be sure, born under a lucky star. I have always said to myself: "you were born under a lucky star."

They hauled me aboard (nearly frozen stiff) and warmed me up with brandy and with a comfortable, stylish, and, the men insisted, surprisingly affordable Eileen Fisher pashmina.

Life is glorious! and very big, and sometimes far too cold.

02.23.2020 (DAY 3)

It seems self evident that truth is a thing immured, that by turning over enough earth and tearing down enough walls we are sure to find it entombed - dusty - shrouded - yet radiating such unsullied brilliance as to render its identity unmistakable. This is the dream. This is the quest -- uncovering, retrieving. This is the prophesy -- revelation. This is the dream -- impossible - yet - predestined.

To dig holes, to fish - these are noble actions. Surely it is noble to expend all efforts in pursuit of revelation.

Yesterday I went fishing. I caught a fine fish. I reeled it in and sliced it open, tip to tail, and in its belly I found a ring. All things are omens, but some more so than others.

Today, standing on the ship's deck, it all seems a dream. All seems a dream. The foaming spray coats everything in a fine layer of cotton, denying even the most solid objects their typical guise of solidity. We are on the brink of something. We are on the precipice. In front and behind and all around there is only salt spray; mist; primordial sludge; television static.

Everything is dissolved in everything.


Truth must be buried. Or, that is to say, truth is only truth if it has been buried -- revelation demands excavation. Cold hard facts left too long in the sunshine oxidize, taking on a patina of fiction. Truth too long exposed no longer looks like truth. Truth is a thing immured. Truth is a thing immured. Truth demands excavation. Truth is a thing immured.

You have got to dig holes. You have Got to dig holes. You got to go, and dig those holes.

"You got to go, and dig those holes."*

*Song:"Dig it" Album: "Holes" Artist: D-Tent Boys

2017 but also every day

On Monday he woke up.

On Tuesday he transferred the heavens
from a cereal packet to a bowl,
and added whole milk.

On Wednesday he reached a hand
into his coat pocket,
and found thirty-five cents.

On Thursday he thought about taking the train,
but did not take the train.

On Friday he lost most of his men
to a devastating blizzard
in the frozen food aisle.

On Saturday he inhaled.

On Sunday he ate a grape,
ate a grape, ate grape, ate a grape,
on Sunday he ate a grape,
and wondered whether people ever burst,
like grapes, and like balloons.