something happened at home. you stand there waiting. a phone call. sorry we don’t have the keys. we can’t show it to you now. they said something had happened at home. the land lord’s away. back in two days. —- “it’s as if you give off light” – “sorry. it must be the redness of my nose at this moment.” —- right at this moment. —- it was her birthday and you let it go by. an e-mail was written and left unfinished. ideas were gathered and recorded on paper then left undone. without a sound. —- and then you realized you had read it before only about thirty or so pages into the book. that first spring festival in this city. when fireworks were still banned. the city deserted. you were here alone. visiting yourself for a week. roaming the empty streets with a camera and some scattered thoughts. it was lying on his bed when you entered his room and immediately caught your eye. if you think hard you can vaguely remember bringing it along on one of your strolls and taking it out of your bag at the KFC at dianmen. the only place nearby serving coffee. ordering one coffee after another. it lying in front of you on the table while you stared into space and occasionally stole glances at the kids’ drawings on the wall. —- you felt his presence yesterday. a strange comfort. those dark circles right outside the window. like that night when you just sat there in the dark. music loud and on repeat and tears flowing. you had promised to go to his shop to ask him if he was willing to be interviewed. you tried to gather yourself together. a pile of person. mount it on the bike and go. eyes drying. but as soon as you got to the main street. another rush. and so you just biked and biked and biked. dongsi beidajie. yonghegong. bei er huan. andingmen. deshengmen. xizhimen. chegongzhuang. pinganli. baitasi. xisi. dianmen xi. houhai. dianmen dong. meishuguan houjie. dongsi beidajie. later you made up an excuse that he hadn’t been at his shop and you went the next day. he agreed. eyes dry. —- you run into him right outside the supermarket. bags in hand. “i had been meaning to contact you. we’ll be getting to beijing on the sixteenth.” “we’re leaving on the fifteenth.” “oh. where are you going?” “finland, norway, sweden, denmark, your country: holland – amsterdam.” —- the only one at the table saying so abruptly: “i don’t believe in past lives.” —- while you wait. an old man passes by. grey trousers. brown synthetic polo neck shirt. millimetered grey hair. in his right hand two fried bread buns. one half eaten. he walks on slowly then stops for a second. scratches his thigh and adjusts his underwear. the white station car that you had just seen pull up is obstructing his way. the station car had contained one woman, three men and one of those big tv station video cameras. one man pointed ahead “just that gate over there”, the equipment was gathered and the woman said: “ok, take us there.” the camera man wore a t-shirt with the words “i love music”. and you realized they were probably going into that house you had been before a little less than a year ago. a revamped semi-traditional beijing courtyard house. selling for in the millions. the old man walks on a bit farther and stops again. thinks. scratches his head. the car is obstructing his way. then he moves forward. grabs the railing of the fence and swiftly slips his legs one after the other through the tiny gap between the fence and the car. he walks a meter or so then stops. right there on the pavement and continues eating his buns. looking at the car and the street. —- the street bleeds with us. open. exposed. people pulling and tugging at it. ripping it open and drowning it again. now at our door. a repetitive banging on the wall next to you. a chisel and a hammer. —- completely out of the blue he writes you an email. he must have forgotten who you were. two characters and a question mark. you are? —- the dates are starting to fall from the trees. once fallen some start to rot. ants gather. a dynamic city of ants. —- what do you want for your birthday? no. please. please don’t get me anything. why do you always have to be so weird like that? why don’t you call me? why don’t you pick up the phone? why don’t you get another test? —- we start again. —- is it me – the one who screams into the well. and you. the one unable to bear green peppers and beef? —- or was it the fact that i had not come home for three nights. —- “now, however, i lived in a world that i had chosen through an act of will. it was my home. it might not be perfect, but the fundamental stance i adopted with regard to my home was to accept it, problems and all, because it was something i myself had chosen. if it had problems, these were most certainly problems that had originated within me.” —- you live here more than i do. you get all the mail. another magazine this morning. green. from sweden. volume nineteen. number one. spring 2007. modern chinese literature and culture. the bank did not receive my mail and i did not receive theirs. —- you had always planned to go to the laitai flower market but you never did. she had bought seeds. and a bag of what she had hoped was soil but had felt like cement. but surely enough a few weeks later the seeds started to sprout and grow and she nursed them carefully until she left. and then the storms came again and we left the house for a week and they just sat there silently withering. not a squeek nor complaint. until today. you emerge from the bathroom. book in hand. a clear view. yellow withered stems. you drown them in water. like you did yourself the past few days. —- you’re back at that point. same outfit three days in a row. dark-ish grey baggy jersey harem trousers. a black ribbed jersey men’s under-tank. light mint green cotton blouse dress. unbuttoned. made in india. maternity wear. the one you had bought that rare occasion the two of you had gone shopping together. —- that week. the icy grey weather. so perfect for the way you felt. and the irony later was that you would end up living on the same street. replacing him. his presence if you will. as so it was he left when you arrived. a coffee and a hug and that was it. —- “they were hoping their visit would not leave a trace.” —- as long as i remember you there’s no need to remember me – please forget me, i write back. —- you wonder who you choose to confide in. —- i write him back. i tell the truth. he does not write back. —- you notice that in your absence a glass was broken. “scherven brengen geluk.” —- on the ‘to do’ list: big poop post with picture. —- a little more than a year later. walnuts have become little dried slices of yam. you try all the brands you can possibly get your hands on. —- you wonder. do you blame in general? others? me? responsibility felt as guilt. you cannot blame anyone for your irresponsible behaviour but yourself. in that distorted way you do accept responsibility. things were not premeditated. and you were never angry. it was never a matter of revenge. though you did not act to better the situation. and you apologize once more. perhaps futilely. for dragging her into your slowness. into your confusion. into your distractions. your misconceptions. —- the first word in the dictionary as it misreads your handwriting 无巴鼻 － have nothing to hold on to; be unreal. while you were trying to understand the meaning of 无为 － doctrine of non-interference; inaction. —- later i heard he was in taiwan. still later i heard he got married. —- belief. just a ball of ultra condensed energy that flows back into all things. —- nothing else..