I think I spooked someone who was accused of singing sad songs. Antonin Artaud is the Father of the Modern Theatre. He wrote ‘Theatre As The Plague’. I talk about him with Victoria Arnold, the sister of my dear friend, Bill Arnold, who I concluded killed himself on my eighteenth birthday – eighteen minutes past midnight – so it was the day after I was born. He drove on to a railroad track in Ogden Utah, around the bend from some tall cottonwood trees, so the engineer would not have time to stop. Bill turned off the headlights to the Volvo my mother bought him.

I was in love with this woman singer for over ten years. I love her no more, because I suspect I have been identified as the stalker of Belle who asked me in a e-mail to writer her about be getting sober.

On October, 8…