I always know. I haven’t thought about him in years. But tonight, as I am awake and anxious, grieving other things and other people, he came into my mind—more accurately, into my stomach, which is now in knots, and into my lungs, which are barely working. So I looked, and there it is, a screening last night in Chicago of the film I wrote and that he stole. Why it’s being shown again now, I have no idea. But I always know. Ten years ago I suddenly thought of him and it was screening at MoMA that night. I’m not even that mad that he stole it, really, or the other projects that he stole.  I wrote them for him to make, I wrote them because I loved him and I wanted him to love me back. (He did. Except he couldn’t.) I’m sure it has been harder for him to live with the lies than it has been for me to live with the truth.

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