I moved in with Norse in 1984 and spent my days writing and studying
film and literature.
Norse was drafting his memoirs.
We lived in a creative stew under the strain of the most devastating years
of the AIDS epidemic.
We both had good reason to think our lives would soon be over.
The pressure I placed on myself brought on the symptoms of florid DID.
My alternates were coming out and writing and Harold was responding
to them as ‘characters’.
Norse gives me a rundown of what he liked or hated about a collection of poems I left for him one week in February 1985. He calls me ‘Bobby’ in the note and uses. ‘Bobby’s’ accent in the opening. Seems I also wrote a poem called ‘Jew-Boy’ that Norse thought was sick. I have no memory of ‘Jew-Boy’. One definitely had to be strong to ask Norse to…
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