January 23, 2004

Last night, Trevor and I burned newspapers in his backyard for reasons neither of us understood. He got on his knees in the snow and passed me pages from The Star telling me to crumple them as he fumbled with his lighter. And then the fire burned bright, orange, and green, and the flames sought to consume us as they leaped from the snow.

Both of us yearned to become bums when we saw how beautifully newspapers burn in the winter. Concerned about our sanity, Trevor’s roommate came to ask what we were doing.

“Burning evidence,” we told him mysteriously.

As he was about to leave, Trevor told him the truth. “I wanted to see if it’s possible to burn newspapers during the winter.” The roommate left without understanding the fire.

I stopped by Trevor’s house earlier that evening for election photos. To warm me up, Trevor made tea and then we talked about orgasms and peeing in trashcans. We’re going to make a movie in a week. People deserve bad pancakes. Conversations with Trevor always unfold like a jumbled dream.

He eventually took out his camera, and feeling inspired he made me pose drenched in symbols. Some of the photos are savagely good, so thanks to Trevor’s magic election posters will be coming out this weekend. My campaign will revolve around mystery, ritual, and darkness, in contrast to last year’s appeals to sexuality and power.

All I need is a narrative that metaphorically connects the content of my platform to the disjointed and savage images. The posters will be mystical, overwhelming. I hope this won’t lead to another burning in someone’s backyard …