Witness 2011 is out.

In a rare fit of maturity I wrote kind of a serious story - I mean a story where the characters have names. Witness published it in their Blurring Borders issue, a copy of which arrived at headquarters yesterday. When the mailwoman called me up on the intercom (pronouncing my name in the Spanish way: I used to have one syllable in my surname, now I have four) and told me I had a package I got a little scared because I didn't know what it could be. Who in this world had sent me something? I didn't bother to change out of my pajamas. I went downstairs as I was. The neighbors want to put an elevator in, but I like walking up and down the stairs in my pajamas. It's time I have to myself for thinking, ruminating, defogging. The mailwoman waited at the bottom of the stairs in her yellow uniform with a big white envelope in her hands. She said something about how the mailboxes are too small in this country and I said that if we made them bigger they would take up too much space in the world because there are so many people in this city. She didn't laugh much. I was in my pajamas. She was about my age. We were speaking a language that is difficult for me. She gave me the envelope from Witness. I wanted to tell her what was inside it, but she was already gone even though she was standing right there. She was putting telephone bills in the small mailboxes. I examined the sender's signature on the customs slip which appears to say Am aAm. I was appalled and mildly ashamed at the postage fee stamped in the corner. I went up the stairs, thinking, thinking.

I read my story, curious about it. Those were the days, I thought. It's pretty much all made up, but I did work on a fish farm in Ireland for a while. At the time I knew a Malaysian guy named Lim, but he didn't work on the farm. I don't know where he worked. He probably didn't have a job. He couldn't speak English but we used to hang around together, go for walks, take in the rainy Irish lack of opportunity. God knows where he is now. Probably on Facebook. And, no, I never knew any Nigerian brothers or homeless Romanians. I've met an angry Frenchmen or two in my time, but never one like Johan. Where had it all come from? I read my story as if it were someone else's - cringing only once, and that due to a grammatical error (maybe they'd packed up and WENT home) - then I read some of the other stories. I am in good company, once again. Peter Orner's story at the beginning made me cry for a moment or two. (Rosella. Rosella!) This weekend I'll read them all. Witness 2011. Get a copy. Looks good. I'm thrilled to be there.