In the spring of 2000, before my life righted itself properly, I was lying on the floor of my apartment and staring at the ceiling, which at that point did not have the ugly water stain. I was mentally insinuating myself into the floor, letting each limb fuse with varnish and hardwood until I had achieved a kind of mycorrhizal union with it. Because that was better than going to the meeting I was supposed to be going to and giving the presentation I was supposed to be giving. I knew, as I was staring at the ceiling without the water stain, that at that moment the chairs were arranged in a circle in the reception area, the director and producer and writer were looking at their watches and slapping their notebooks on their knees, and everybody was just beginning to wonder where the hell I was. Three weeks of difficult work and many long-distance phone calls with Roma immigrants had lead up to this meeting; all my notes were in my backpack by the door. I had struggled to make this happen. Nonetheless, I was lying on the floor and making believe that I was a giant fungus. It was at that point that I decided it was no longer worth living if I had to do it without some heavy drugs.
