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The sermon for Aug. 10, 2002 is: an instance of the fingerpost 10:53 p.m. Dear Diary, hello, how are you? I arrive a little depressed. I spent the day playing clarinet (Colleen gave me her clarinet on Thursday) which made me happy for a while. I found some poems I had written on artpieces which had moved me-- Felix Gonzales-Torres' "Untitled (Lovers, Paris)" which I'd seen in Chicago; some Rothko pieces I'd seen in the Rothko cathedral; Marc Chagall's "Birthday" which is everywhere; Helen Frankenthaler's "Scarlatti" which I'd seen in a magazine the first time I was in hospital and I've seen sometimes in the sky ever since-- and I had thought perhaps of cramming these poems here for the hell of it (what is poetry, after all, but a species of special sadism?) but after looking all over the world wide fucking web for an image of "Untitled (Lovers, Paris)" I became insanely depressed. Because a) what the hell am I doing writing poetry? Poetry's fucking useless. I forget who said that-- Auden? Larkin? Some fucking useless poet. And b) because Gonzales-Torres, who died in 1992, has little or no presence on the internet. This shouldn't depress me, Diary; after all, history is a litany of forgotten brilliances and beautiful losers; one should just resign oneself to the idea that accomplishment is illusory, everything is futile, and there is no point to pointless endeavour. Nevertheless, I remain depressed. My anomie extends beyond me. The phone rings; I cannot be bothered to answer it. Books fall open into my hands; I look nonchalantly at random words, and let them continue falling toward the ground. I struggle for breath; I feel like I am drowning. I think I'm becoming too lazy to continue living. My friend Ray called. He was in a panic because he hadn't heard from Young for two months. I calmly brought Ray up to date. He was outraged at how emotionless I felt, how sarcastic. Suddenly I felt guilty: should I not critique Young's use second-wave abstract expresssionist poetics in transforming his brains into a canvas? Does the application of postfeminist and Lacanian theory to Young's decoupage of penis and razor strike you as jejune? Ray called me a monster. I called him a hamster. I suck at playing the dozens. I feel bad again, suddenly. I will wait for something to happen. If that something happens to include death by falling Skylab, I should welcome it.
 
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