Sometimes you have to start a page even when you have no sense what will go there – or if anything will appear there but shame at your own emptiness, and wastefulness, and hopelessness. It is necessary to make a new beginning, today, another new beginning, because it is the opening of the door invites the guest. Whomever comes in, you and they have not pre-arranged a little party two months ago, and both kept it in your schedules. No, these are sudden out-of-nowhere arrivals and resurrections, as during a civil war. They bring alcohol, a very little food, instruments and Eros – the Eros of good, hard talk. On the instant, the kitchen of your desk is a carnival, cha-cha-cha, a party of presence, a celebration of continued and entwined existence. And out of that, in the midst, while someone cackles and someone sings, someone rolls a cigarette and someone starts to weep, you hear news of an unexpected birth or a miraculous transformation. Two people who were characterized as lighthouse keepers are now the most beautiful, entertaining affair; the inert marriage of X and Y has exploded into brilliant fireworks of jealousy, and all because of a cockatoo; Z, who always believed themselves to be male, right from girlhood, has succeeded in becoming something even more extraordinary; A has died, but astonishingly not by their own hand – by that of B, a fascist who everyone knew for a fascist but didn’t take seriously; and C has written an unprecedented work – and C is you. And does it matter the whole alphabet of acquaintances is comprised of ghosts? Who is to tell if there are many here, or only the one?
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