Like an ant with a secret, I am a reservoir of indetermination. The output streaming from my mouth and limbs of action is ordinary, dumb even. But there is another hidden route leading to places we might never find: desk drawers which usually remain shut but which, when opened, offer a wonderful woody fragrance giving a distinguished, antique air to the scraps of paper waiting there neglected, abandoned, forgotten—the familiar markings upon their surface belying their role as steps down into blurry corridors of dark sense.

I am a magician who dresses ever so plainly—so you are not even aware that you are being tricked. I have the appearance and personality of an ant which is to say forgettable, hardly present, or none at all. You should justifiably move along to something of more interest, something more exciting and leave me to my mute, private movements.

But it is even worse than this. I now notice, only a few feet away, another magician—dressed far better than I am and using more interesting props—also engaged in performance. I stand for a moment compelled by every movement, intrigued by each decision, entranced by the beautiful simplicity of this other’s presence. As I marvel at this performance, I realize how flat and uninteresting my own show has become. My outfit is not just ordinary but threadbare, my props look like children’s toys, and my appearance: tired, haggard. It is no wonder I hold no audience captive. Who wants to see an average nobody going mundanely through the same old motions? What was I thinking? You will not stick around long enough to discover the potential magician lurking underneath the mundane surface. You do not see a reservoir of indetermination—you see an ant uselessly traveling around and around the same outworn circuit.

But it is even worse than this. I don’t believe in the “magic” anymore. Years ago, I did. Years ago, it was the magic and the mystery hidden somewhere behind the magician that drew me in. Now there is only the performance, the ability of a person to offer a compelling experience and to cause me to think that there is something more beyond the surface even though I have largely rationalized such illusive depths away. A compelling performance allows a spectator to dream—though it is important for the spectator to be open to dreaming, to be open to thinking that there is more to this life than they have ever imagined.

But it is even worse than this. I turn back around and there is nobody—no gallery, no rapt audience watching on the edge of their seats, not even a stray person happening by. Never has been. There are, however, more magicians—magicians lining stages as far as the horizon, each performing as though it was the only show in town. What to do in the face of this ridiculous spectacle of pointless self-importance? How can I possibly go back to performing having now seen the full situation? What is the use of continuing?

But it is even worse than this. Occasionally, a magician will fall down motionless on the spot mid-performance. And while some of the other magicians in proximity might hesitate for the slightest moment, there is noticeably more movement and activity on the part of certain magicians in trying to claim the spot held by the fallen magician. Sometimes a magician simply gets there first and wins the new location. But when several magicians move to the location and begin performing, the magicians weed themselves out according to how well their performances fit the new spot. On rare occasions, this process is never fully resolved. The fallen magician is inelegantly pushed out of sight as a matter of course as the new performances taking place unfold.

But it is even worse than this. There seems to be no way out. No side door, no exits into a larger world of richer happenings. Only magicians performing endlessly for nobody. There is no more of an outside to this place than there is any reachable, authentic (or unreachable, magical) depth to anything inside of it. As I walk along, though, I can see signs that some of them are subtly watching the others nearby, trying tricks they see another perform. Indeed, it seems possible for someone appropriately well-versed in such things to trace every part of each performance to another performance by another magician, concurrent or from the past, so that each individual performance finds its place in a grand web of all performance.

But it is even worse than this. I realize that I have only one viable option opposed to doing nothing at all. I begin a new performance where I stand. But I perform without a sense of self-importance, without expectation or anticipation of being noticed. It allows me to concentrate greater than ever upon my performance though I do occasionally glance at the magicians in the vicinity to see what they are up to. But I have only the slightest thought that another magician might briefly look my way and find something worthwhile in my performance to try for themselves. But it is precisely this—this slightest of slight hopes that I might be of some small use to another magician—that encourages me to continue trying to improve my performance.

But it is even worse than this. For I have no solid idea of what might count as genuine improvement. I might decide to alter my performance in a certain manner. And this change might bring about in me a certain degree of pleasure—a feeling of being in rhythm with life itself wherein I lose myself—or a feeling of being defiantly out of rhythm so that I may feel my presence apart from all else. But am I pleased because I have succeeded in making an improvement in my performance or am I pleased merely because the change has disrupted what had become monotonous? Will my pleasure subside if none of my neighbors provides me with a sign of positive reinforcement regarding this change? What if it is merely the case that none of them saw or noticed this alteration? Or what if it was duly noted and met with only silent approval? Or perhaps it was noticed by some and met with a sort of jealousy and, hence, an attempt to show no sign whatsoever of recognition of my alteration.

But it is even worse than this. Suppose one or some of them do show signs of recognizing the change in my performance. How would I know whether or not they approve of it? And, if they seem to approve, are they merely hoping that it will successfully draw my attention to them? Should it bother me that this might be the case or should I be flattered that they should specifically want my attention? Or suppose one of them should go so far as to mimic my new performance. Should I take this as confirmation that I have forged a new pathway worth pursuing? Or are they trying to upstage me by showing that they are capable of performing my new trick better than I can myself?

But it is even worse than this. What else could I possibly expect from my fellow magicians but for them to continue doing what it is that I seem to be doing—namely, continuing to perform each moment to the next according to our own whims, notions, and subtle interactions—every one of us vacillating in our own way between comfortable, useful conventions (that sometimes come to feel tired and outworn) and new, interesting abnormality (that sometimes turn out to be uselessly bizarre)—each of us hoping that others will find something of use or of note in our performance—a strange, interesting pathway—a unique beauty—a recognition of some universal understanding—a technical marvel—something—anything—anything at all to make me feel that I am not merely manufacturing a performance that is being immediately poured away into a sink, disappearing unnoticed—a magician performing to his own shadow upon the wall.

But it is even worse than this. For despite this genuine hope for contact with another, the “you” that I spoke of earlier has never been anything but another name for myself, and I’m not quite sure where you’ve gone.