I am writing a creation story; for this is how it all begins, the world and all the people in it. You and me and whomsoever you are currently preoccupied with; for we all have someone even if they occupy the object position; the me as I explained tentatively to someone the other day. Me who takes up the object position; the teacup hanging from the wall meek and willow-patterned; blue and mild; quiet and white and chipped around the rim. Waiting to be selected, waiting to receive hot liquid. Not exactly an after thought but an add on, a supply of some need, even to myself in my self-reflexive state. The self turned against the wall; see how she lifts and bangs when circumstances rock her.
But I write to turn away from me and I, I and me, like one of those toy windmills turned sideways you blow upon someone was always sticking into your hand as a child. Blow, here, blow here! Turn this way and blow!
But Pond Man cannot be blown; he is not me or you or I. He is completely other — over there, elsewhere, somewhere else completely; detached, removed, never here at all; perhaps something I must believe in. He is a perfectly structured day; a set of consequences carefully ordered; certain ways of doing things you may or may not recognise — it doesn’t matter — Pond Man is there doing it just the same.