At last I can figure out the nature of that whisking sound which I hear whenever I leave the room
It is not really the sound of wind through television aerials, safety screens, and the holes in old socks and
underwear dangling on clotheslines
But Fate, rubbing its hands
Whisk whisk it must certainly be wearing gloves
Whisk whisk or else its fingerprints are ridged and immortal as corduroy
And nevertheless, despite the threat
Here I am proceeding as if it were normal
As if a future came automatically, without having to be predicted, without requiring that personal conception
precede circumstances and occurrences
As if any difficulties experienced last night, today, and tomorrow
And the tragedy of yesterday, with its latent triumphs
Were not illusions of some will or other,
Harmony of hope and trepidation
“Whisk whisk whisk, there you go again, Fate, swathed and whisking away.
Now that I have thrown back your disguise and found you hidden under the mask of the whisk
I know you will not go; and so it is time for a new incognito”
(Listen to how clever it thinks it is outside our windows coming down the street again with that crunch crunch
crunch squeak crunch crunch crunch)
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