January 31, 2021

The news is a pink cloud. A few days ago, a man played "God Bless America" on a trumpet as the sun went down. The reverb off the apartment buildings carried the sound across the island, applause ringing out staccato from hundreds of feet away.

It feels like reuniting with an ex, ominous. I don't watch the news, I don't listen to him speak. Like most, I am happy to return to the apathy of the Obama times. But something worse is coming.

Reading the memes as social psychoanalysis, it's very interesting to me that the Wall Street Bets event was the first big story post-45.

Their logo: a blonde, besuited kid in a suit, gallant and shameless, surfing a wave of money. It's as if we are dreaming our way out of the trauma, reshaping the Bad Orange Man into something cartoonish and wholesomely populist. It's about as much closure as we'll get from it all.


There's a hole in my attention where our president used to live. The knot in my stomach loosened, the devil in the clouds is gone. It is not an optimism, it's not an anything. It's mostly the end of a...