Look for a ghost. Call an old forgotten phone number, one that connects with a disremembered rotary dial-up model in a stylish 60s shade of yellow, sitting dusty on a side table in a house overlooked by the bulldozers, and ask whatever answers, “Are you a ghost, or do ghosts live there?”

Or find an abandoned cellar—they’re everywhere, according to Hollywood and the bottomless imaginations of children, and enter into the dark spider empire and whisper, “Any ghosts here?” Then wait for a whisper in return. You may need sensitive equipment, or hear it all on your own, so close to your ear that it’s almost a kiss. “Raphael?” it might say, mistaking you for a lover lost first in minutes and then the hours and then….

Don’t worry. There probably won’t be any ghosts at all, or if there are, they’ll be standing very still and won’t say a thing, their eyes working in a dead sort of rotating way, seeing you, through you, behind you, or you from behind, or from above you, a shadow on the joists, in the deep valleys between them.

What I’m suggesting is just an exercise; read a book if you’d rather, or wash the dishes. But beware the ghosts of those who died lonely, like the one of the man who died sitting next to the yellow telephone, which never rang in his life though he listened and practiced his disappointed hellos. The ghosts of them that died lonely. The ones who look expectant when you enter the room, even though to them you’re blind, and reach out a hand from where they sit, and softly take a piece of you, without you knowing, as you pass them by.







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