I am interested in natural talent.
It seems to me that this is what links the sciences with the arts. There are people who receive such little formal training, but make wild work consistent with the rules and conventions of a particular field or genre. From painters to mathematicians, composers to chemists, sculptors to physicists. I would note, however, that there are very few true prodigies in writing.
I have no theories about that.


This morning I woke up cold. The windows were wide open, and I had nothing but a cotton sheet, synthetic-fiber blanket and a pair of boxers to keep me warm. That is to say, they didn't keep me warm. I'm nostalgic for the 80's, if you can believe it. I miss sitting on my dad's lap when he was home over lunch, watching Sesame Street on our 12-inch black and white TV. I miss my Donald Duck tank-top; I miss the slightly steeper-than-normal driveway of our house in Rushmore, Minnesota; the biggest problem in the world was when I skinned my knee running down it, towards the gravel road we lived on. I miss the big tree at the edge of the alfalfa field, the only tree worth mentioning for flat miles around, and singing "This Old Man" while seated on the lower branches. This was a time when I knew what it meant to be sad, but sorrow wasn't in my vocabulary. And it's strange, because remembering my childhood gives me a profound sense of loss. My range of feelings has increased, but I've become more emotionless. The recalled innocence makes me feel so cruel.


Fresh kills. I had always thought it was named such following 9/11; I also thought it was a bit insensitive and cold, but that might be the New York way. Apparently not. Since it had always been named this, "in the wake of the events of September 11th," I'm surprised outraged citizens didn't demand it be renamed. Maybe they did, but they didn't get any coverage. But you can take a photographic tour of the place. Especially the garbage-hunting birds descending in the sunset, that's poetry.