Covid-19 Diary, part 59: The monoliths are here to judge us with their silence.

1506.

Holy shit, Batman—another monolith appeared, this time in Romania. It’s that wild and crazy tribe of artists, the least trustworthy of groups. (I count myself as a member.) 

1507.

Either it was planned ahead of time, with two or more artists working in tandem, or there’s a prankster copycat. Or, ancient aliens are revealing their plans for us, so we can find a celestial gateway to our future evolved selves.

1508.

Beth dumps gold glitter all over the kitchen floor.
Me: Back home we call that, “Screwing the pooch.”
Beth: We always called it going on back to Pensacola way. (in a teacher’s voice) “Did you go on back to Pensacola way again, little Jimmy?”
I admit it, this is hilarious; Simone, Pearl, and I laugh and laugh. 

1509.

The South Never Plays Itself is back from the printer, and any day now will be out in the world. It is an exhilarating, terrifying feeling. I’ve been second-guessing the entire project, how I structured it, the movies I picked, even the locales I zoned in on. I’m a bundle of nerves. What if I suck? What if I’m just a dumbass charlatan? What if I’ve deluded myself?

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