Stalking a haunted city in fall, at dusk, wrapped in clothes of wool and dark tones that echoed the crisp autumn air back to itself, saying: “you are not empty yet.” I was there at least. So were some spooks, or people who inspire dread by living in the shadows. I’m assuming they are people, but perhaps they’re better than that: true ghosts, beings uninhibited by the messy tethers of corporeality. I walk just behind them. Or maybe it’s among them, and I just don’t see them, because they are that fluid. The more I learn about this mystery of course the more I see, but also all the more I know I don’t see, which will forever humble me even as I etch more of a role in its happenings. The dark dirty yellow of incandescent street lamps, when it is darkest and when it is dirtiest, swells into an orange. I bathe in it, realizing the features of my face which it accents are precisely the ones I myself have felt but could never see under the ceaseless blinding desert glare. In this dark yellow-orange I see myself, my dark sides alongside my light, complementing each other in ways that hold the gaze, that don’t prompt me or others to avert their eyes to more comforting conditions. There is a rawness that sustains here. The rough and refined play off each other in dialectic. Very little is erased, only gradually written over, and nearly everything can be partially recovered. Recovery. There’s a perpetual air of recovery, of incomplete return, remaining as it is in order to sustain a memory, a connection to both the apocalypse which birthed it and the golden era awaiting on the other side. Knowledge appears as traced lines.
The characters I’ve met on this journey of perpetual becoming are shrouded, revealing only pieces of themselves at a time, in manners both inconsistent and unpredictable. There is a doublespeak in the unveiling of their hearts, but what keeps me here is that it is clearly an unveiling. In other places the veils go on, but here, they are being woven out, removed out-of-order, revealing the occult pattern of their stitching. I can’t help but feel that their stitchings contain the secret of my song, the one that I am supposed to sing, but can’t quite yet, because I didn’t stitch them, but almost certainly will, because I’m one of the few who can read them upside-down. I showed up as the 3rd-party, alone, and now am here to stay. Here to stay. Finally I can say that. A tortuous half-decade of fearing to believe in a feeling, and finally I can say: here, Hungary, I am here. I am here to read with you. Let us begin.