It’s so much easier writing about dopey shit, honestly. Enough of these heartbreakers in a quick period will find you critically impotent, grasping for adequate straws to show that, yes, you too have been deeply affected by a work’s beauty. And you mean it; that’s the hardest part. Which is to say that I mean it, that I still feel some vague sense of the tragedy of Melvin Dixon’s too-early death. Guy had a way, and Vanishing Rooms is a sorely unappreciated spark of brilliance that was snuffed out by AIDS in that immediate window of the disease’s ascension to the throne of the 1980’s many Panics (be they Satanic, nuclear, epidemiological…) I dunno; maybe you had to be there to really connect the wider sociological phenomenon’s weaponizing of homosexuality—especially male—against the very population most in need of succor to feel how fucked it was. Or, reading this, knowing what elision was right around the bend for the author and having it trigger an authentic memorial synapse between all the outwardly disparate parts and players. To feel, not theoretically, the panging echo of having been taught to fear the mundanity of a goddamn toilet seat. So, what do I say elsewise to what I have already attempted and failed at up this point? I haven’t a clue. There’s only this surety: I was there, so was Melvin Dixon, and one of us hasn’t been anywhere at all in almost forty years. And that, folks, is a goddamn tragedy.