I Have This Prejudice That

For Years I Have Been Mourning And Not For My Dead, It Is For This Boy For Whatever Corner In My Heart Died When His Childhood Slid Out Of My Arms.

He'd Been Numb A Long Time, Years. All His Nights Down Ninsei, His Nights With Linda, Numb In Bed And Numb At The Cold Sweating Center Of Every Drug Deal. But Now He'd Found This Warm Thing, This Chip Of Murder. Meat, Some Part Of Him Said. It's The Meat Talking, Ignore It.

In Effect, I Grew Up In A Sort Of Timewarp, A Place Where Times Are Scrambled Up. There Are Elements Of My Childhood That Look To Me Now, In Memory More Like The 1940s Or The 1950s Than The 1960s. Jack [womack] Says That That Made Us Science Fiction Writers, Because We Grew Up Experiencing A Kind Of Time Travel.

I Can See Television Much More Easily Than I Can See Features, Because The Economy And Politics Of Making Big, Big Features Seems To Me To Be Narrowing Even From What It Was.

When I Come To A New City Is I Combine: I Say, Well, It's Like Barcelona And Edinburgh, Though I Can't Imagine What That Would Be. But Toronto, The Last Few Times I've Been Here, What Always Comes Up Is Chicago And West Berlin. It's A Big, Sprawling City Beside A Lake, Of A Certain Age And A Certain Architectural Complexity. But The High-end Retail Core Looks More Like West Germany Than The Magnificent Mile. Yonge Street Is Like K-damm. There's An Excess Of Surface Marble And Bronze: It's Germanic And As Pretentious As Pretentious Can Be.