October 27, 2021
Normally I don’t stand here and wonder what to write when someone tags me into a conversation with all of you. The anecdotes that would be good in the garden under the blankets and winter coats with friends I met far enough into my thirties that our decade-old fights look painfully childish, stories I’d tell around the fire pit because even though it’s May, it’s England: all those stories are no good.
October 26, 2021
Before Thalia left and then he left he had an accountant named Jesus is Victory who went by Jiv. Whoever suffers in the body, Jiv said, is done with sin. He drove three hours to Santa Barbara each day to swim because the people there, he said, had a vibrational frequency of grief. He worked in Culver City, in an office with a neon pizza on the sign. He didn’t have time to change the sign,
October 25, 2021
I’m in town for a funeral, sharing a faded-pastel California hotel room with a divorcee grandma and a prostitute; good thing, because they’re two of my best friends, so instantly we fill the dead-air with life and irreverent laughter.
“Wait, so you’re like, really a prostitute now?” I ask, making sure I heard her correctly.
“Well, not really,” she says. “Okay, I mean… the first time I fucked him he paid me three-grand,
October 24, 2021
It is said that at the end of all things a wolf will swallow the sun.
No-one knows exactly when, but the story goes that when the time comes, the wolf will finally break the chains that have kept its jaws bound shut and fulfill its destiny.
It’s like sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool. Light and sound distant and distorted.