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Four figures

Sunday 2/17/19

1001 days without a drink today. Ran three miles. Was going to go to a screening of Looney Tunes shorts at the Brattle, but things are very bad, even by the standards of here. Sat in the dark for three hours eating peppermints, thinking what I can possibly do. What the solution could be. Wrote an op-ed today on Jussie Smollett. Figure it's fifty-fifty that I'll be able to sell it. High quality individual, that Smollett. You know what's not on the rise? Hate crimes. You know why? Because most people aren't racist. The true racists are the people who seek to profit by making you think it's rampant. And while we're at it, I don't believe for a second that Adam Jones or C.C. Sabathia were called the n-word at Fenway Park. I don't eat anymore. I have no appetite. My heartbeat has been fast, my breath short yesterday. Watched the first season of Turn. Middling. Watching the Sam Cooke doc on Netflix. Good so far. Came up with three new short stories this weekend. Feels like a curse. I think it's a curse. I believe it's a curse. All part of a larger curse. I can make a story out of anything now. I can make a story out of anything now that is better than any story has been. I can do it all the time, and I can do it easily, and that only make things worse. I'll talk about my short story "Hold Until Relieved" from Boulevard on Downtown on Tuesday. Louis Armstrong's "West End Blues" came on the sound system at Starbucks today. That's what passes for a weekend highlight now. That opening cadenza. Modernism. The held high note--for twelve seconds--I counted--after the bridge. The vocals as good as any of it. My brother. A real artist. Like Picasso. Welles. Are any real artists out there now? This is a three part interview with Eric Dolphy's parents from LA in 1975.


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