The booger in the pool is way more important to me than what place I came in at the 1988 or 1992 trials.
On June 2, as the torch bobbed along the avenues of Stornoway, what was I doing? According to my journal, I embraced life with ‘2 naps. Turkey club. Vague sense of unease.’ How did I occupy myself on June 20, when the torch was Leyburn-bound? ‘A real 3-napper. Shooed some pigeons from the fire escape. Whispered, ‘Am I falling apart?’ while I scooped a clump of hair from the bathtub drain.’ As the relay hit Potternewton, I have, simply, ‘Croatoan.’ The relay path described a map of my unworthiness.
Colson Whitehead visited the London Olympics. (We hear they get pretty freaky in that Village over there…)