Had an incredibly complex discussion of romantic/supra-realist art today with J. The gist of it was that I realized that, for all my railing against post-modern, formalist art in which no one is a hero, I really don’t write romantically; the things I write aren’t the kind of thing I like to read. Kind of strange that I only just now figured that shit out.

Idaho. What have you done to me?

I can’t help feeling that this place could be a lot better than it is, although it has some major pluses. (Oh, quite profound, self.) It’s full of hicks in pickup trucks with gun racks, but they’re a part of America too.

I’m not into that ‘my country right or wrong’ crap, but we  do have to take the bad too. My love of America goes beyond the urban, urbane East, though my experience hardly does. America deserves to be immortalized the way that England was by Shakespeare, and so many others that loved it. Or Ireland by Joyce, filled with love & hate for a place he fled for most of his life.

And I am just the woman to do it.