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2001-01-08 After a period of drunken leisure, I had begun to work as staff assistant to the academic vice president at a state-funded art college in Boston. My computer ran a very satisfying version of Word Perfect. One day, at work, I wrote:
When the searchlight, God's searchlight, is no longer upon one; when it has, all at once and for no apparent reason, moved on; when suddenly one is neither squirming blindly in the midst of God's screeching haolgen regard nor standing confused upon a mysteriously charred and blackened patch of earth which seems, like the evidence of a fiery visitation found in a lonely field by someone who saw from a distance strange lights seem to crash that way the night before, to bear witness to the passage of an uncanny event with which one had oneself nothing whatsoever to do; when it's only morning and there is only the old all-colorful world posing an at-this-point unfamiliar lack of significant boundaries, which seems to require one's eyes to keep moving ceaselessly in their sockets in a vain effort to take everything in, causing exhaustion; then, in the resonant At Last, there comes a feeling of having been abandoned, of having been rather less than was necessary and thus so simply left behind; while at the same time, in the feeling of having somehow missed the point which is sudden relief's other great burden upon the long-traumatized, there is the terribly pungent sense of having, finally, bored God.