I am the definitive proof that the least relevant quality in the world right now is talent.
I didn't run today. It's just too depressing to move sometimes.
I see no hope. I am not sure, even with my imagination, if I can even imagine hope.
I wrote an op-ed on F. Scott Fitzgerald and This Side of Paradise that I need to sell by tomorrow. What that means is this week, here on Wednesday, I have had a piece published in the TLS on Orson Welles, created the alternate version of the pandemic story--there will be another--in "Six Feet Away," finished a 5000 word essay on Sherlock Holmes, composed an 800 piece on Francis Wolff's jazz photography--so what is really an art piece--and written two full short stories in "Pre-Prime" and "Sound Holes," plus the op-ed. And also talked on the radio about theater, TV, music, film, and fiction. All the blogs.
Because that's normal. Loads of other people can do that.
I can barely tell anyone how fucking miserable this is. There should be a feature in The American Interest soon, too, on Miles Davis. A couple lesbians invited me to a threesome, but I think right now I'm just going to try to brush my teeth.