A 2-liter flood dose of coffee, 2500 mg of Depakote and 100 mg of Lamictal today made recovery seem possible. I hope the feeling doesn't pass. I am in the worst physical shape of my life.

I noticed that our walls are bare, save for a tiny collection of framed nostalgia: a poster of an exhibit of Angkor sculpture that happened 20 years ago in Paris, posters and clippings of Creeper Lagoon, a photo from 1934 of my grandfather in a football uniform and a cover of a book of my mom's poems. That's it. The whole house. Admittedly weird. Furniture has also been disappearing. Objects become currency. My proxy at Christie's Manhattan once said: "They're just things." We came to this island in a shipping container and we will leave in a suitcase.



From the Paris exhibit: the Khmer king Jayavarman 7 (1181-1218). 11 years ago I saw his face on a poster at a Khmer-owned fish shop in central Connecticut and called out his name; the proprietors cheered and gave me my fish for free. Know your Khmer kings.

Everybody hang in there. Our disease gives us empathy, and those ignorant of our suffering will underestimate us.