Cars and trucks glittered in the neon. I was looking hard, seeing details: the hippie couple ahead of me, both white kids with dusty dreds, the woman in a raggedy patchwork skirt, skipping like a kid. I was looking hard. I was thinking of the Black cop in Reservoir Dogs; “…get the details was the soap yellow liquid or that gritty pink powder?” — Journal entry, 2/16/95
I read my way through the shadows of my childhood. My mother intended to give me a love for books. She succeeded — in equal measure by intention and by going psychotic again and again. I learned to pay attention to the details: the ambulance parked in our driveway, the still figure on the gurney, the empty pill bottle left on the bedroom rug.