When I came around the corner, there was a huge crowd cheering for me. But it was as if I wasn’t ready for this, I was still so lost in thought. So incredibly, I lowered my head and kept walking. What a person has to do, at any given time, I was thinking, is identify the key problem. Then the scene that represents the problem appears and develops and swiftly, magically, is furnished. That is the rigging, the very setting, and now the circumstances typical of this problem, the story that always accompanies this problem, ah! that is so familiar!–of course, for this is the unsolved problem, the very one that has always dogged me and, really, is consuming me as if were my life. The typification, the nexus, the nettling one and only problem which, really, has already threatened to consume lesser problems, and now actually is right up front. Now, I think, all we have to do is address this issue head on. I am walking down the middle of the street at midnight, coming back from the corner store, with a plastic bag swinging from my hand, in a very tentative snowfall, just a skirmish, a few flakes. I pretty much have it figured out, what the problem is at least, it is right in front of me, laid out like an unfinished card game or something. I am just going to go in the house and get back to work. After all, I think, I have been fairly dedicated, more than most people–but, there now, that is not the direction to take this problem in. For the problem is internal, and the issue is how to express it. How to exactly sound the alarm. Then I can publish it, and advertise it, send out an advance guard, like horn players to announce my arrival in the capital . . .

Subsequently, during all the days and nights and the circumstances that are bound to interrupt one’s sure focus, well, one might lose the thread, and ditch that problem–though it seemed like practically everything. The truth is, I think about alot of things, it is my work, my milieu, you might say, but I never get entirely comfortable because there is always this sense of urgency, that I am not addressing the actual central question. And it might be vital that I do, because for one thing other people might be slaughtered in my neglect. I look around, and some have fallen, some are swept into oblivion it seems. What am I doing! I ask myself, why do I not concentrate on the real central question? Lord! What one always finds is that what they have to do is identify the question, isolate the matter, cordon it off and then stand back and assess the difficulty. My, how fluid is the expression of the abstract difficulty; one can go on and on and barely infer what the thing is! Language is a bounty, a cornucopia, a horn that never fills up, for the impossible to express! Are we not supposed to be finished, but just always to have plenty to say . . . ?

I remember a time when there were crowds cheering, or I was giving lectures in a hushed auditorium, or like I came in the room and it was a surprise party. Or like I came into a restaurant, and everyone at the tables turned around at once and started clapping. What would be best would be if it was a surprise party for someone else–though. There are many who are deserving of accolades beyond measure. Though, I reflect, maybe no one really likes surprise parties. I don’t even know what the occasion is, attached to this, suspiciously vague, set of pseudo-memories. But on the other hand, once these halcyon days have gone by, it would be something to have the record, and remember it. Wouldn’t it? One wouldn’t be so abashed to have that on their personal resume, and one would hope that the celebration reflected the achievement, though really, how could it? I haven’t gotten there yet, I am still bowing my head in thought, coming around the corner, overflowing with these sentiments, just reaching for the door handle to enter the house.

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