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I should be grading papers about Lydia Davis. Or I should go to yoga at noon. I could be working on my story about the couple who buys a blow-up doll to play the part of the counselor in their DIY marriage therapy sessions, or writing an entry about this week's adventures with Low Tzu. But what I am doing is reading this book.
I cried so hard that I lost my breath. When this happened, I became detached from myself. I walked and gasped and, as I did, I could feel my unhappiness walking beside me, waiting for my breath to return so that it could climb back inside me.
In the mornings I prayed, and at night, when I was supposed to be sleeping but couldn’t, I spoke with God. One rainy night, the room was gray with light from the street and my mother was lying nearby, her breath whistling. I was on my strip of foam and I asked God whether he minded being prayed to only in need. “You think of your toe only when you stub it,” he said. “Still, it’s better to pray just to pray.” “It’s human nature. I don’t mind it.” God looked like Clark Kent...
