sad as though something i had is gone.  it’s something i can’t identify, something i didn’t know was there before it died this weekend.  on closer examination, i think it may be some sort of capital-letter Universal Truth, about Life and How it Works, or about How We Never Really Know Anyone at All, or You’re Never Going To Be Great.  Other People Are Better Than You.  You’ll Never Get Paid to Do Something You Love.  You Suck.

my old friend marisa wrote me a letter once, consisting of a single typewritten page that looked something like this:

other people don’t see me at all.
other people don’t see me at all.
other people don’t see me at all.
other people don’t see me at all.
other people don’t see me at all.
other people don’t see me at all.
other people don’t see me at all.

it was like that all the way down the page.

i wish i had tangible art.  i wish i could show you notebooks and journals with writing and drawings and things stuck together with glue, tied with string.  we’d sit in chairs together, paging through, and i’d say, this is when i wrote this, drew this.  i wish we could look at sculptures made of metal and styrofoam and empty cigarette packages.  i’d point to them in the corner of the room and tell you, here, here’s what i did.  i wish i had more stuff.

no, this is what i do.  want to see my writing?  it exists in ones and zeroes on a machine somewhere in indianapolis.  want to see my photos?  i’ll put them on a disk.  want to read the paper i wrote on darl as a main character in faulkner’s as i lay dying?  you can read it as an email attachment.

i can’t prove anything.

“the best stuff,” i said as we drove down the freeway in the rain, “is held together with toothpicks and tape.”