The presence of writers is like snow: quiet, watchful people. Slowly more fill the room and the room becomes omniscient, but with nothing to watch except itself watching etcetera, like an inside-out glove in the snow that I thought was alive because of the vibrant stitching of the liner. Somehow have to renew myself in what other people have scattered, or in scattering itself. Providence is a good place for this–I find a lot of clothes lying on the ground, good ones, like the pink hoodie that’s the color of Pepto-Bismol, which I swallowed when I was an upset child. I just realized that instead of “presence” I’d written “presents”– of writers. Last night, scallops from Aaron, bread from Nalini, cashews from Mark. Today sachertorte from Susannah. Sachertorte is layers and layers of hotels shipped from Vienna and Salzburg. We will inhabit each hotel separately, then together, alternating like themes in a modernist RITE. And then later, CAROLE. For her class I am reading the stitching of liners and looking for patterns in what has been scattered, studying like an apprentice in the kitchen of a prince who’s about to be deposed.