...who comes seeking room at the inn {1}

It begins with language, as it always does. (Even the first wordless moments of form at the opening of the door — the look, the glance, the taking in — is itself a dimension of language, of communication: "...this is who I am, that is who you are, this is where we are now. Let us begin.") So in the beginning was the name. Or, more accurately, the naming. It was practically the first order of business, although 'business' wasn't the thing that was happening; it was fascination, a gossamer understanding, an abjectly wordless intuition that there wasn't just something here, there was... someone. So I began by giving you a name. And not just any name. The one name. That is, a number. ::chuckle:: There are a number of reasons I haven't written about this here before, and they have mostly to do with a solipsistic shame. In the beginning I felt this wasn't really who I was, this was just a means to an end: of making ends meet in this beautiful but expensive city and even though I…