it’s illogical and unhealthy to accept bad news from the environment and incorporate into oneself. at times, i have to tune it out, because i am convinced it will hurt me.

when i heard that edward kennedy had a brain tumor, i felt terrible. hearing about any public figure who’s sick upsets me, and kennedy is in a way the living thread to JFK, who is iconic, so it’s doubly bad. soon after, in the lab at work, the radio stated that the new york governor, david paterson, was in the hospital for some problem with his eyes. it wasn’t explained, but the word tumors was used.

i switched off the radio, because it was too much. later that day, i would have a headache, i knew, caused by the news, caused by myself. would i accept a brain tumor, would i accept eye tumors, would i bring them unto myself? would my mind convince me i was deathly ill, bring it onto me, smile at me, and ask me to empathize?

after september 11th, after flight 597, i got up early one saturday morning and the radio said space shuttle columbia had disintegrated during landing. i switched it off immediately. i would have to face it later, but i needed some time, with only the information i had heard, to get used to the idea. accept it, understand it has nothing to do with me, and then i could learn more.

it’s hysterical—the literal, original meaning. i’m certain that on my entrance interview to the army, they would note it’s a feminine quality. a valid criticism would be that it’s narcissistic. i believe i am more important than i am.

i would say this is not entirely true. rather, i just believe i am more to blame.

so i bought a summer home in the country. on the shore. in the city. please click me there on occasion, dear sir or madam, if you wish.

Chapter 1

I sat down, remembering I wanted to write something down first. I open up my spell-write steno book and my pen.
          A guy with blonde hair, about forty. He’s frowning. “Hey. You writing or are you reading?”
          I look up for a second, a pause, “I’m writing right now, and I’m gonna read in a minute.” I look back down.
          “What you writing about?”
          Without looking up, I hand him my book—perhaps that will keep him happy. “Hrm,” I hear him say. I glance over, out the corner of my eye. He frowns even larger and narrows his eyes.
          He opens the book and thumbs through it. He turns very carefully to the copyright page, and then the first page, and begins reading. I continue writing. He reads for about a minute, and sets the book down, turns his chair around, and walks out of the bar.

Chapter 2

“Hey. Hey, are you reading Boo-dard?”
          “Hey, are you reading Baudrillard? Are you reading Baudrillard?”
          He’s talking to me. I look up.
          “Yeah.” I flip up the cover of the book so he can see it. After a count of three, I flip it back down and start reading again.
          “Hey, why are you reading Baudrillard?”
          I stop reading and look back up. “I’m on a lifelong quest to understand it.” I wait a second, he seems not to have a response, and I go back to reading.
          “Why are you on a lifelong quest to understand it? Why would you do that?”
          “It’s just a hobby. I’ve been reading it for ten years, and I’m actually starting to get it.”
          There’s a pause, and I start reading again. “Oh, wait, wait,” he says. “Is Baudrillard the one who writes about prisons and penal colonies. Wait, that’s ...” He starts struggling and snapping his fingers, like he’s pretending to try and remember something.
          I decide to say it. “That’s ...”
          “Foucault.”
          “... Foucault.”
          “That’s it.”
          I wait a long time, and then look back down to the page.
          “Did you ever hear the story about Derrida?”
          The very word I am trying to read past is coincidentally Derrida.
          “Which story?”
          “He was standing, waiting on a subway. And this guy asks him, ‘So, so what do you really think about everything?’ And Derrida says, ‘I made it all up.’”
          “Yeah.”
          “That’s probably just something cute he said, though. He probably didn’t make it all up.”
          “I don’t really know anything about Derrida. I’ve never read him.”
          He didn’t say anything. I went back to reading.

Chapter Bunny Rabbit

“How’s your John?”
          He looks like he’s on the track team. He’s a happy guy. “I’m sorry?”
          “How’s your John? You’re reading John.”
          I realize he’s saying Jean, which I’m not all that sure how to pronounce.
          “Your Jean Baudrillard. How is it? Is it good?”
          “Yeah. Yeah, it’s good. It’s really, really good.”

Chapter Lightning Rod

She starts talking to me without a pause from the conversation she’s having with her friends, as if I am part of the conversation to begin with. “So what are you reading?”
          I show her the cover, and say the title. “The Fragile Absolute.” I count to three and bring the book back down and look back at the page.
          “Show me that again? Is that a religious book? What did that say?”
          I hold it back up, and point to the subtitle. “You mean this.”
          “Why Is The Christian Legacy Worth Fighting For,” she reads aloud from the cover. “So are you a Christian?”
          I bring the book back down to reading position, but keep looking to her. “It’s about how Christianity and Marxist theory are actually similar, and they should be allies in opposition to New Age spirituality.”
          She smiles and nods. “Yes. Yes, exactly. Here’s what I think.” Her smile gets really big, and she taps her box of cigarettes on the bar. “Some people just want to tell you what to think. People are in each other’s business, and nosing around in other people’s lives, and it’s awful. People outside of New York will just not understand what’s going on. They’re there, and the Republican party tells them what to do, and you just have to get away from that and understand about people—”
          I hold up my hand, “I’m sorry, I was just about to go. I have to be home to meet my wife. I’m sorry, I really do have to go.”

Chapter Fuck

I sit down next to a guy with glasses. It’s a cold night with heavy snow, and there are only five people in the bar, including the bartender. However, due to the way they’re spaced, I have to sit next to someone, so I chose the guy with glasses.
          I haven’t even opened the book when he turns to me. “Sooo, what book are you reading?”
          I show him the cover.
          “What does that say, I can’t make out his name.”
          “Imre Kertesz. I’m not sure if that’s how you pronounce it.” I open up to page one and look at the first word.
          “But who, who is that? Tell me about it. Is he famous?”
          I put it down and look at him, but close my eyes like I’m thinking. “He’s Hungarian. He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 2002.”
          “Oh, well.” He laughs a slightly sarcastic laugh. “I guess I should know all about him.”
          “I wouldn’t say he’s famous.”
          “I try to keep up with who wins the Nobel Prize.”
          I wait a second and then look back down, reading the first word again.
          “Is this book like most of his?”
          I look up quickly. “Actually, I don’t know at all. I haven’t even started.” I keep staring fully at his eyes, waiting for a response.
          “Fine.” He gets up and walks away. When he opens the door to the snowy sidewalk, the bar is suddenly cold.
          I start reading again, and the Scottish bartender comes up to me, smiling. “I guess ‘ats the danger, reading in bars, you get the talkin’.”
          “Comes with the territory. It’s all right.”

Chapter Amber

Without considering the day, I had gotten my heart set on going to Sparrow and reading, but on my walk there I realized it was eight o’clock on a warm Saturday night, and people were everywhere, going out to have fun. At the bar it’s loud and full, and there is only one square foot of space available, which happens to be a seat at the bar. So, I stay.
          Next to me is a group of tall blonde girls who look like they could be in a sorority together. They’re having cocktails of some kind, and laughing. I’m happy with my small burrow of space, happy with the noise and the dim light and the smell of the bar. It’s the perfect environment to read.
          “What are you reading?” It’s one of the tall sorority girls. “What’s your book about?”
          I show her the cover. “It’s called Dead Cities.”
          She sets down her drink and positions herself for a conversation. “So what’s an example of a dead city?”
          Her body language is such that she’s completely pivoted her attention to talk to me. My usual count-of-three and looking back down will be rude. “He’s talking about whether cities are in a steady-state or not. Las Vegas is one of his examples.”
          Her reaction, her expression is as though someone said her mother is a whore. “Las Vegas isn’t dead. It’s awesome.”
          “Yeah,” I say.
          “Why would he say that?” She’s defensive.
          “It’s about economics and architecture and city planning.”
          “Yeah, um-huh.” She turns back around.

Chapter Soul

It’s extremely busy, and a girl is next to me getting a drink. She’s short and slim, in a skirt. She’s got glasses, like a stylish librarian.
          She’s looking at the text of the pages. “Hey, is that Mike Davis?” She has to talk loud, over the noise.
          I look up. “Yeah, it is.” I flip over the cover, where it says Dead Cities, Mike Davis. The cover is an apocalyptic landscape with crumbled buildings, and a meteor streaking through the sky.
          “Like City of Quartz Mike Davis?”
          “Yeah.”
          There’s a long pause of silence.
          “Well, it was really good to meet you,” she says.
          “Good to meet you too.”
          She walks away.

cherry blossom petals on my can of beer