OUTSIDE, EVERYTHING LOOKS different, is different. The light is brighter, the sky bluer. Now the air breathes me. And I walk. A calm has enveloped me. The people I pass smile and nod. How strange and wonderful to be in this world. How strange and wonderful to smile and nod back. I am in on a secret. I am part of something larger. I am truly changed. But I do not look at my former self in judgment, in disdain. I have nothing but compassion and love for that person, for every person, for every dancing, spinning electron in the universe. I understand now that I do not need to show Ingo’s film to anyone. Indeed, I cannot show Ingo’s film to anyone. The film was meant for me alone. The only way to share the film with others is to share what I have become. I have been transformed by it, and my presence will transform others. The entire film itself is, of course, the Unseen, at least by others. That is so obvious now.
I will remember it again. And again. I will remember it for the rest of my life, but not as a critic. I will not attempt to master it, to own it, to teach it. Those days are over. The days of flag planting, of claiming ownership, are done. From here on in, I will submit to great art. It will do with me as it sees fit. I will go where it tells me. I will let it in, let it tear me limb from limb, eradicate me, rebuild me in its own image. I will dwell in it as does a subject in a heavenly kingdom. I will never again attempt to own anything: no film, no person, no idea.
I call my editor.
“Hello, Davis,” I say.
“B., where are you? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for months now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I have been immersed in a life-altering experience.”
“Are you OK? You sound different.”
“I am different, wonderfully different.” I chuckle warmly.
“Um, great. How’s the Enchantment piece coming? We’ve been waiting to see pages.”
“Davis, I love you and I am so appreciative of the opportunities you’ve provided for me.”
“Great. My pleasure.”
“I’ve arrived at a different place, and I can no longer live in judgment of the work of others. I am just so grateful to be alive, and I am grateful that the world is alive in all its magnificent complexity.”
“What are you saying?”
“I can’t write any more criticism.”
“We’ve invested in this piece, B. We sent you down to Florida.”
“And I’m so grateful. Thank you. Perhaps you can give it to Dinsmore? I’ll send them my notes. As Dinsmore is a trans man, the piece is rightfully theirs.”
“I don’t really get what is happening here.”
“For the first time in my life, I can honestly say I don’t know what is happening, either. And it feels wonderful. Goodbye, Davis. I love you.”
I hang up, but not in my typical angry way. I hang up gently. I hang up with gratitude, without guilt. I hang up because it is time to hang up. I then call to cancel the memorial slide I had ordered for Ingo’s gravesite. I will lose the deposit, but I do not care. Then I order a new stone for Ingo. Just his name and dates. Simple and discreet. Maybe even that’s too much. I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now. I am learning. I am a student. Always and forever a student. An absolute beginner, as they say. And that’s good. That is the right thing to be. I can breathe. There is nothing to defend. I am free.