For Fabiana Heifetz

I have banging Eros on my head on the way to see Grand Canyon. The one over here, not the one over there. The Hockney thing. So, I walk up the path, and down into the garden, and up again, and past the grill, past the Chinese little girls who start following me saying hi all the time, once they finish rolling in the grass, and past the past. There is a direct line from Hockney’s purple and straight into the bathrooms. And you never know who you can ambush there. Smoke envelops me and I hear the erudite one saying: “Cosmic constellations. There are causal relations that are above us.” I look at him sideways and wonder if he has just been reading Eric Hoffer, who was also into literary orbiting: “We can be absolutely certain only about things we do not understand.” “Is that cosmic enough for you?,” the one still here asks. Ah, the embrace, and the kiss, and the knowledge. “That’s more than enough - I hope.” I say this with strong conviction and emphasis on "hope." Smoke envelops us, and the one who got to me through Derrida, Great Jascha’s relation tells me: “You’re here because I summoned you.” “Oh, really?,” I ask and then she goes: “You know, some women think that Lacan was un hombre muy hermoso.” Echolalia is in the air: “Je dis toujours la verité. C’est les mots qui manquent." – Palavre of the handsome one. “Boof,” the owl goes. “Bufnita” and “polonic” are the best Romanian words. “Are they?,” Borges’s translator wants to know, and she offers “horoscopul” as a worthy competitor. “Of course she “ul”, wouldn’t she?,” I think to myself, and start enumerating the languages that she can speak. Many. “I’ll come to your place and bring luck,” she says. Bon. Meanwhile, all I can think of is the image she offers me: I, as a rich Lebanese heiress in the presence of the king of deconstruction. Some are laughing, some are squinting, and for the life of me, I have no idea what keeps Eros so long.


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