——There is no question that I believe–I keep coming back to it in my reflections–that a person who comes to my work with high expectations will read it differently from one who comes to it randomly.  Though sometimes I think quite the opposite! That a person who comes to my work with no expectations, will read it differently from one who already has delusions, I mean decidedly false hopes–of whatever variety they must be. Or, need I say it, there is the one wearing a ready frown. One way or the other, I am hopelessly confused, as to what state of mind I expect, or hope, my reader to be in! But the further and deeper truth is I generate more content just from thinking about this shifting, wary, expectant, hypothetical reader. I like that! My hypothetical reader!  Perpetually, I am in a very agitated state, I have a highly frivolous relationship with any reader who lights upon these passages, which in themselves are always propositions. My writing largely consists of an explanation of itself; it is essentially a defence, of a lifelong project, a drawn-out strategy, like an acceptance speech I keep giving, or a sermon couched in apologetic terms.   I am preparing notes, examining my own working methods, questioning my own logic, presently, for one or another of these meandering, though artful talks, which are considered in advance, then caught up in their own confusion.  This is the score, and the constant paradox, that I am preparing myself for what appears to be a spontaneous address, profoundly without regard for the actual audience. Because–strickly speaking I am going to be responsible to that audience, right around the corner,  just if and when I decide what the long prepared for occasion requires. I will have become totally voluble, just as I arrive at the abstract question of my usefulness. Abstract indeed, and swarming with a kind of promise. A cascading light.  One cannot tell from what direction this powerful, I want to say illicit, illumination comes. Whence it originates. In my path, though, are translucent buildings, somehow blotted out from afar, and yet bursting through the interior. It’s an expansive moment, in a vice grip.

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