The academic from Paris and the self-described “gypsy,” who had met at some kind of literary or maybe linguistics conference, ruined the car ride to the restaurant; they ruined the view of the beautiful hills; they ruined the cows and the word—one of my favorite words—suckle; they ruined the sunshine and the new Young Thug album I played quietly as we drove; they ruined the concept of community, their grating and unwelcome blabbering in the backseat of my rented Ford Focus assaulting my sensitive ears; they ruined “clause” and “the left” and “adjunct” and “blowjob” and “opportunity” and “Caravaggio” and “santa”; they ruined what should have been a perfectly wonderful drive up a mountain, but was instead a most ugly descent into hell.
Recommended reading: The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, Poemland by Chelsey Minnis, The Courage to Be by Paul Tillich, Imaginary Museums by Nicolette Polek, Surrender to Night: Collected Poems of Georg Trakl (trans. Will Stone), The Novelist by Jordan Castro
