Maybe a week ago, I came to terms with the fact I’d likely lost my phone from the UK, the one with the voice memos recorded during the breakdown that was the basis of my 2011 show, “Cold Chicken.” Recordings I’d never listened to, even when preparing the show.

Then I searched through every satchel in the apartment looking for it. And found it.

And put it aside in a bag. In which it is now not.

I saw it just the other day when I was checking its connector.The phone, I mean, not the bag. And NOTHING has been removed from here. Not a scrap of trash. Only a few recyclables.

Did the phone fall out of its original sack, get knocked into the recycling and go the way of the milk jug? The one thing I needed, or at least wanted, gone in as difficult and unlikely a manner as possible? I mean, my most desperate and hopeful emotions were on that phone. Decay and redemption, perhaps the most meaningful chunk of me.

Now lost to history.

I can only hope some good for the world can come of this and that the recycled repository of my pain and belief will be reborn as a rain poncho or something.


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