It all seemed to coalesce after I donated my television with its ancient VCR player to the intern house at Copper Canyon Press. My sluggish connection out here on Discovery Bay won’t stream. YouTube just hiccups and sputters, and I get up to make another cup of coffee. I no longer listen to NPR; if anything, it’s documentaries from the RTE. Sometimes CBC, as long as they keep it local. I’ve learned to think in Celsius. I have no idea what the beautiful people say. I work in a clinic, listen with kindness to stories of suffering but I draw the line at hugs. Also: sex, not. Today, I almost googled curling, but I decided I liked my image of it best: fat men on roller skates, swabbing a bowling ball with a mop across a polished ballroom floor. I’ve figured it out. I like my own versions more than theirs. Friends don’t hear much from me these days. I’m losing weight. I subsist on poetry.