Writer — if I call myself a writer, if I say to myself: that’s it, I’ve made it, I’ve arrived, I’m finally where I wanted to be — well, I’m not sure that brings me deeper into the work of writing. I’m not sure I feel more wedded to that new status. No — I’ll likely feel the need to move, to look elsewhere, wherever “elsewhere” might be, and hang a little sign on the door of my shelter that reads Torno subito, as my excuse. “Back in a moment,” yes. Because I can’t just do this, only this. I’m not allowed to take up Beckett’s answer: “Good for nothing else.” No, I’d rather grapple with another kind of reality, rub up against otherness instead of what’s already too familiar. And so I can only write sideways, obliquely, in stolen hours, on borrowed time. I need to have other things to do. I need to be swept by contrary winds.

If I want to stay with documentary narrative, I have to slip into the lives of others — become attuned to what troubles them, watch them without making them feel watched, earn their trust, their friendship, work with them, be bored with them, feel time pass beside them, maybe even make something together.

Make what? A hat. Two hats. Three hats. A whole string of paper shapes — like a garland of words floating above our heads, warding off bad spirits, dark thoughts. When these shapes fossilize, they might turn into ex-votos. With both hands on my head — that’s not enough — but I trust my hands to remember the old gestures: the gesture of writing, and the gesture of shaping something that fits the exact measure of my skull. A tiny script, careful with folds and circles, a kind of writing that might dissolve into a cloud of confetti.

Two hands joined by a Möbius ribbon. I began the year with that image from Lygia Clark, as a kind of wish. I posted it on social media — as if I needed to send it out to others, though at that moment I had only my own hands for company, gently stroking the rounded screen of a phone, sending out a burst of wishes to whoever might catch them in passing.

“Writing as a form of prayer” — yes. And on some days, simply copying them down, prayers — copying others’ phrases as prayers. To hold on, to resound, to hear oneself, to turn toward something larger than oneself, while also finding strength within not to be crushed. Because there are days when all you want is to slip away, to get the hell out.