excerpts from life is elsewhere:

In the gray routine of lessons and homework the glory of his inner world began to fade. (33)

Who was he, then? What was his inner self really like? He tried to lean over his inner being to take a searching look, but all he ever glimpsed was the mirror reflection of his spying gaze. (ibid.)

…it’s not the artist’s job to copy anything, but to create a world of his own lines on paper (34)
the bourgeois is the person who wants pictures to look like real life; but we can laugh at such people because (and Jaromil loved this part) because they were dead and did not know it. (35!)

FORT WALTON BEAST (fetal part I)

I

So it’s 7 am and I am on the F train back from Staci, the greek mafia princess’s house.  It’s strange to be walking around in a daze on First Avenue and First Street as the sun rises, knowing you have to jump in a southbound car with Jesus and Mary at noon. My eyes are barely open and I can’t quite make out the DOMINO SUGAR sign as I cross the Williamsburg Bridge. The sun beats down through the faded glass windows of the train and my phone vibrates in my pocket…

“We’re already in Pennsylvania, sucker.” The screen reads to me from Jesus himself, mister Moyese the Four.

But it was all a game. I saw them sitting there at the Rabbithole, sipping coffee and putting down omelettes like the apocalypse.  The scent of eggs and double espresso weighs down heavy upon my sour stomach. Mary begs me to eat some of the wet eggs, so I take several bites and claim satisfaction.

Greg walks into the bar, begs me to finish some photographs of his oils for him while he hands me a stack of twenties. The next thing little brother knows, he’s scrambling his way into the back seat of a white diesel suburban. The engine cries out as we speed across the Bridge, thirty minutes ahead of schedule…