But the class, as explained by Professor E in a no-joke three-hour, unbroken monologue, was Wittgenstein, and then a whole bunch of fucks responding to/trying to understand Wittgenstein.

Misunderstanding Wittgenstein.

Trying to understand the rules governing what could be said, since they no longer could say what couldn’t be said, when Witt’s whole point had been that everything that could be said could be said clearly, without knowing any governing rules.

Getting bogged down with nitpicky metaphysical questions entirely unrelated to the real, tangible problems of the world.

Like, say, why raped and murdered corpses of women kept showing up fortnightly in the Sonoran Desert, on the U.S.–Mexico border.

And I wasn’t even a dick about it.

Just went Thanks but no thanks is all.

I actually reached out to him to co-edit my Bolaño book-thesis, and he was like Nah.

And our subsequent interactions around campus were sus.

Such a meanie!

Which convinced me that, when my thesis got blocked by some faceless, unnamed member of the administration, he’d been behind it.

But so I was sitting there feeling judged af, barely able to remember how my School/Academic Voice even sounded anymore after all those nightly spliffs to the face during that season growing weed in Humboldt.

After that year of trying to become a rapper in Oakland, before that.

After sleeping outside for a season, before that—a mish/spazz-out his arguable diploma-block directly precipitated; I set out walking, from Philly, after being told I could return to finish out my degree, but at full price—my eight, need-based, full-ride semesters had expired—a month later.

“And so what have you been up to…Sean, was it?”

“Erm…”

“I remember you were trying to write a book on…Borges?”

“Bolaño.”

“And so?”

“I mean…I’ve been…shoot…still tryna write that book!”

But then, thank fuck, the reading started.

Everyone who read was whatever till this girl who seemed not much older than me went up there.

Sleeve-zatted like a muhfucker.

Fkn hella swagged out.

Super sexy but in a way my brain couldn’t objectify due to my awe/admiration/fear of her.

How she read, her voice had a quivery quality she overrode with her deliberate and concerted pacing.

Like she knew that what she was reading was Out There, but like she’d thought it through and had decided that she, still, nonetheless, was gonna read it.

The sense of anticipation in the room—heightened for me no doubt given Professor E and I were damn near touching knees—pin-drop-y in a way no other reader—who unanimously created an affect of circle jerk-y formality akin to a story told at a stuffy dinner party—achieved.

Hers was like: Yo, here’s a concerted, focused communication of my realest, deepest, fkng feelingest feelings, bro. Take it or leave it.

My heart was beating so fkng hard, so sick.