You might begin to wonder why you never really see me. You never really see my desk or the furniture or my shelves.

The inside of the apartment door is covered in stains left by greasy hands over years. I’ve tried to clean it. I’ve scrubbed off the paint in places. When I’m motivated enough, I might just paint my front hallway. I want to paint it in the textbook colors of the Lascaux caves and I will have a caveman party and we can paint cave paintings. My super won’t like it. I don’t care. Meanwhile, in the hallway, a painting hangs. The canvas is warped but I like the painting, so I keep it. But I hate that it’s warped. There’s a riot of black shoes strewn in my front hall. It’s altogether unclear why I might need more than one pair. There is one big bag holding three little grocery bags hanging from the closet door knob destined to be filled with Murph’s leavings. There are two black jackets hanging limply in the dim hallway. One for when it’s cold; one for when it’s colder.

On my desk is a thin silver scanner and on top of that a green folder and on top of that green folder are a few papers. And on top of those papers, an envelope, ripped open at the edge. I don’t remember what it is and I’m not looking but it’s probably something about my relationship with a bank. On the other side of my computer monitor, more papers. There are two lighters on my desk. A tall green one and a little green one. As with my shoes, altogether unclear why I should need more than one. There’s a dirty ashtray waiting for my last fag of the day which I will light when I finish writing this. The desk is fake wood. There’s a chip in its fakeness above my F6 key. That chip drives me crazy; but there’s no hiding it. The desk is an Ikea job. When I have some money I want to buy a real wood desk and I will take care of it. And I will not smoke sitting at that desk. And I will take great care not to chip the edge where it will hurt my eyes.

That is why you don’t really see my desk, my furniture, my shelves, my lackluster hallway. That is why I’m often about the details. The details are cleaner. Oscar the Grouch lived in his own filth. And he appreciated his filth, he loved his filth, one little piece at a time. One at a time, there is order. One at a time, there is perhaps some beauty.

I have recently rediscovered an old friend I left in Korea. I am really happy to have him around again. He wrote this to me recently: “Memory is good path toward the inner world. It may be included the future life. Your writing reminds me of something different that I never thought of. A kind of key toward unknown world.” It is very kind and flattering. There is something so pretty about the way Koreans think or the way their language is constructed. When they force it, as through a meat grinder, into English almost everything still comes out sounding like poetry. And with my friend especially.

I don’t think my writing is a key to an unknown world. But it’s still a lovely thing to say and a lovelier thing to hear and I will still keep the flush of flattery and joy.

And it’s funny and charming and wonderful that he got at the core of something I was after. Not about being a key to an unknown world. But the idea that an afterlife may just be the accumulation of infinite details and memories.

You never really see me, you never really see the boxes on my floor or the flaccid gym bag beside my desk or the pile of canvases propped up against the book case or the grocery bags hanging on the doorknob because some of the details I choose not to share. Like every exile, perhaps, I edit my view. Robinson Crusoe had to shit somewhere.

SS