"my downloads"

photos and drawings from this summer
come to the show, my allowance is good

however

This was some time ago:

Tom had a fundraiser at his house, a benefit for the Los Angeles Review of Books. $75 dollars to get in though we'd finneagled a waiving of that fee. Piles of samosas were offered in tin trays alongside maybe cookies if I recall, and definitely some sort of alcoholic punch.

I made small talk with an Indian man from London as the sun bowed behind the West Coast. He was there to make connections in the film industry which seemed misguided, however I admit that I felt like I was at the wrong party as well. Really, I'd only shown up because I knew I could get in for free.

In waning daylight acclaimed author Mary Gaitskill would read by the pool. When I reflect on the evening I see her in some gothic white gown, though in reality I think she wore a cream colored suit.

Seated stiffly in a high backed chair behind a microphone Mary announced in a quiet rasp that she was suffering from a sore throat, and that to accommodate its soreness a friend of hers had recommended a piece of weed infused chocolate. Succinctly she apologized for the low volume of her voice and the pace of her speech. She was very high.

Through the reading (from a then-new book of essays) the temperature dropped. I could not hear her well enough to make out much of what was being read and had neglected to bring along a jacket, maybe having assumed the reading would be indoors. Who can say? I do know that cold and bored, I suffered.

The reading ended. The timing of the event being so soon after an election the Q&A portion took an unsurprising turn in which neoliberal attendees probed for Mary's analysis of the obviously vile new American president. It is anyone's guess as to what the point of this questioning was. She let it be known that her opinion of him was bad. She seemed cold and bored too.

Inside, after examining Tom's library, I locked myself in the bathroom to gaze into the mirror. I was feeling depressed, tired, ugly, and disconnected from the other people there who seemed to want to pretend the event was not so weird and sucky, something more exciting that what it was. Of course they probably all had to, if for no one else but themselves. They probably all paid $75.

A tap at the door removed me from staring into my own eyes. Since I had no actual reason to be in the bathroom I immediately moved to leave. Unclasping what for some reason I picture as a golden latch I opened the door to Mary Gaitskill. She stood there stoned but wide eyed, silent, wraith-like, in that haunting gown only I could see.

Perhaps one day I'll read a book of hers. I'm told that Bad Behavior is very good.

that word in Croatian where the earth shakes humanity off like lice