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The sermon for Sunday, June 1, 2002 is: possession 11:13 p.m. This is the day I pretend not to think about Colleen. I don't think it remarkable that I am imagining what she is doing now; it's imprecise to categorise thinking about her as obsessive or unhealthy; rather, I am keeping Colleen present and at-hand so as to dismiss her that much more easily, you see? And every minute she spends with whatever boy she's spending the minutes with, with Tasso or with Jeroboam or with Franzcake or Hammurubai or whatever they name the boys these days that she condoles herself with, is another moment that Colleen is condemned to attempt to satisfy herself with someone who is not me. I should pity her, really. She deserves our pity and our sympathy. Tasso and Jeroboam and Ezakadiah and Hammurubai and all that crowd are fine, they can drive a car and blow a whistle after shown how, but really, they can't satisfy Colleen the way that only I am capable of. These boys are fine as distractions, but that's all that they can be, as Colleen surely recognises. She must be looking out the car window now, the boy driving beside her deflated of his supply of witty conversation and pouty good looks. She must be bored! Bored, and perhaps a little remorseful that she's abandoned me. Colleen's looking out the car window at the landscape's boring blur. In the window glass she can see her reflection and the reflection of her poor substitute of a boy. Both of their hair are in flight from the desert air streaming in from the highway. She can see her boy studying his teeth in the rear-view mirror. He isn't ugly. In fact, he's beautiful. Of course he's beautiful, Colleen is shallow and unappreciative or inner qualities, she cares only for the promise of rough sex found in boys with piously sculpted torsos. They deserve each other, Colleen and Michelangelo, or whatever the hell his name is. I should pity her really; and I would pity her, if I ever thought of her. But I'm not thinking about her, not today. Last night or this morning I dreamt that Colleen called me from the state border. I'm leaving early John, she said. Can you come over? We could just spend the day together. Strangely the sound of her voice made me overjoyed; and as she spoke, I became happier and happier, an alien buoyancy invaded my tissues, as if my bloodstream had suddenly become carbonated, until abruptly I realised I was far too happy for this conversation to be really happening: I said to Colleen sadly, This is a dream, isn't it? and slowly hung up the phone.
 
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