Doors

What I've learned from doors that don't open: usually someone is home. You ring, you wait, you sometimes hear something — a television muffled through the door, a step that doesn't move further. Then you write the note and leave.

I've thought about what this means. There's a philosophical position that says absence is a form of presence — that's Heidegger, roughly simplified, and he would hate me for this simplification — but I think it holds for doors. The door that doesn't open is full of information. It says: not today. It says: I'm here but unavailable. That's an ethical statement. I respect it, leave the package with the neighbour and ride on.

What I respect less: the people who just wait for me without ringing and expect me to arrive by telekinesis.

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