'Want to hear about my luxurious morning', my friend asked on the other end of the phone. A morning whose pleasure, calculated in advance was not with out great anticipation and anxiety, of many promises and unknowns, those that might enchant and disappoint, delight and give abjection. There is a chemistry brought forth in advance of new encounters that alights the senses, gives us a push and pull, an alertness, a mindfulness to realize the encounter. And then, the event. Has it not already begun. The smells, the looks, the rhythm of things, the lines and shapes, the pauses, the unfamiliar, the evelope of time, the geography of bodies, space, the yet unknown and just how to be known, to be discovered, the anticpated result, its consummation whose every moment and breath is the multiplicity of multiple events happening.
What followed was the retelling of the immediacy of an event and the event of the telling which was not the event but now an event all its own. And now me here with yet another event, both the trace of the recounted event and this its own event happening, the writing event, and the event of writing the recounting told to me and my recounting it.
The reading event and the notion of recently read which we can extend to recently seen, heard, tasted, touched, is this recent, distinct from the immediacy or primacy of experience. Is any event already the event read? Or is the event, or what consititutes an event or eventfulness, the unreadable of the antipated, the yet read, the unknown thereby requiring that it be read. Is there in in fact such a thing as recently read, or is more so, still reading and recently read a primary encounter forging an event?