I know so many ghosts. All gone now except my memories. I will also be a ghost down the road for others. Sometimes you want to ask how can this be? The query is pointless. How can you even be in the first place? Might as well ask how can a universe exist? How can you presume you know shit about shit? Why does your pancreas know how to be a pancreas? But then again I am liking what I encounter reading or listening to Julie Bindel. She seems to know shit about shit, just like the pleasure I got reading Bernadine Evaristo’s Girl, Woman, Other. I recommended it to a friend who couldn’t get past the first chapter. I am so often wrong when I think what blows me away will blow you away. Maybe I just have not in recent times known enough people with whom I share same decades. Yesterday I listened to Julie Bindel interview Buck Angel. It was titled My Friend, The Trans Pornographer. Now I’m thinking both would be valid interviews about improvisation for the journal.