Egizio slowly climbing two flights of steep wooden stairs, to bring us a thick smooth vegetable soup he had made.

(I hear him coming, his footsteps and the hollow beat of his cane.)

Egizio at his wide shallow closet, with clothes hanging like musical notes.  Pulling out Tumi jackets and giving them to me.  Giving me, with great excitement, velvet blazers–beautiful but far too flamboyant for me.  I feel them draped over my forearm.

What imposing and disturbing wooden masks covered one wall!  As his guests sip scotch or Prosecco, we’re hit by jagged waves of mana.  We’re in a polytheistic temple, if we choose to be.

On other walls, the artwork of friends—portraits of him when he first lit up the scene.

And scattered among all the unique objects, a few penises in fiberglass or ceramic, clearly modeled from life.

Too sick to work, worried about the rent, he shows us a new silver bracelet.  Shows us, around his thin bicep, an Egyptian-style armband.  What can you say?  He should be adorned!

One January, I leave my hat on the train.  He gives me a warmer one, along with a scarf.

He gives my wife a scarf.  One of many, some functional, some dazzling.

This one is both–filmy but surprisingly thick, gray with with gray leaves inset with silver ziggurat zigzags and tiny pearl-like studs.  She wore it tonight and it seemed alive.  The leaves and the glitter together seemed alive.