For Jessye Norman
Every Sunday I’m impotent. Like God. But I don’t like to say that I’m resting my old bones when my flesh is open and sensitive, and feels the pain of what a good fantasy can provide. I can’t tell you what to do. But I can tell you to stop listening to bad advice. God is also resting. He doesn’t feel like being authentic, and genuine, and sincere on Sundays. Find a church and get yourself blown away by the organ. At least you’ll feel something. I can’t invent a new narrative. Not on Sundays. But I can say that the ones we usually serve each other are usually equally nonsensical. I can’t tell you how we know what we know. But I can tell you that if something ends, it’s not love that ends, but knowledge. I can’t tell you what to read. Not on Sundays. But I can tell you that we keep busy with deliberating between questions: “to be or not to be, to have or not to have?” You say this and I say that. “This” is superior to “that.” It’s closer to thought. But equally not useful. “That” is something else. Its use value is not worth the thought, if what wraps around “that” is not “this.” Gifts are important on Sundays. On Sunday you show me your gift, but I can’t tell you what I think of it. On Sundays I’m silent. And demand the same. I can’t listen to you. But I can tell you that I can listen to myself. On Sundays I can only love myself, however inauthentically, irreverentially, irremediably. Tomorrow it’s Monday. I’ll go to the opera. The drama of "naught" is never over until the fat lady sings.