Waiting for the poetry reading to get started, I turn around to apologize to the man sitting diagonally behind me for blocking his view. I am tall. The back of my head has absorbed a thousand silent curses at movies, concerts, theatrical performances, etc. But he says it’s OK, thanks me for my kindness. My friend sitting next to me offers to switch seats, but I say no, if I sat there I’d really block his view — unless my head were to become suddenly transparent, which I wish it would do, the solid self, the illusion of the solid self, gone: just eyes and ears to see and hear with, otherwise vacant space, clean, open, clear, like a window a breeze blows into, billowing the white diaphanous curtains, and there’s an empty chair where a man once sat reading, thinking, thinking of nothing, offering no obstruction, nothing to obstruct.
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