After you left, I had trouble getting going. Nothing really. I walked over to my newsstand and bought a pack of "hard" French cigarettes, Galouis (sp?), thinking how much this seemed like Frank O'Hara's "The Day Lady Died" about Billie Holiday, which made me hum "My Only Friend" by the Magnetic Fields ("Billie, you're a miracle and God knows I need one..."). I was sitting on a park bench, humming, thinking of what to write today. I thought that maybe Faulkner could be King Lear and that I could play the Fool, following him around stormy Southern riverbottoms. So, I walked up to Borders and looked through the Portable Faulkner, found this line: "Faulkner, at least in those early days, was not so much composing stories for the public as telling them to himself - like a lonely child in his imaginary world, but also like a writer of genius" (Malcolm Cowley). Which reminded me of myself, and I made a wish, it felt good, and so I bought the book.
Later I was in a McDonalds, sitting near the giant Playground. A group of little girls were yelling "Punch-buggy - silver!" and hitting each other gleefully. That's my car, I thought. I am the delight of children. I didn't think of having kids, not with you or anyone. I was just happy.
I concocted a family history. Like Faulkner, but funny. You'll probably read it here, in a few days or so. I planned everything so well. Then you called late, after I had gone to bed. Within 20 minutes, I had already told you all of this, even though it was supposed to be some great secret that you would read about later and wonder at the mysterious turnings of a mind like mine. Why am I writing it then, now, after giving it all away so prematurely?, I wonder. I told you... I'm bad with secrets.
