Andrew WK is nowhere. He knows nothing and that is all he can know, and in this he takes solace. He feels that there is a perfection underlying everything: a network in perfect balance, a network of ways to feel, a network that at present appears to him as circles, in circles, infinite circles, orbiting and connecting. Beauty above him. Beauty below him. Beauty at his sides. This is the same as nothing.

More precisely, Andrew WK is home. He has not been home in a very long while and it feels good. Music, the one constant in his life for many years, requires an unyielding devotion to movement, transience. A thought occurs. "Playing music," Andrew says, "should be no different than playing basketball, or playing with a child, or playing by yourself, or with yourself."Ê A circle appears before him. The circle is a box containing a more perfect circle. A pizza. Delivered to him here. In his home. For this he feels immense gratitude. This is the same as nothing.

He hoists a slice to his mouth and quickly drops it back in the box. HOTHOTHOT, he says, fanning his lips. How is it still so hot? It's been out of the oven a half hour, easy, and he should be able to eat it right now. But he must wait and in this moment of thwarted desire his mind turns elsewhere. Outward. Outside and to others. And he hears the noise they make in their pursuit of nothing. It's happening right now and always. Below him on the street, loud and impending. Blurring as it rises up and through an open window into his home.

A circle appears and in it a message. If not for a certain confluence of biological events, goes the message, you would not be Andrew WK. Another circle appears. This circle says there are no mistakes. The two circles combine and the noise from below quiets.

The pizza is now cool but the first bite is bland. It could use some celery salt so he walks through his kitchen to the cupboard and opens it. There's the celery salt. Right in front of him up top. He reaches with his right hand and in doing so jostles other jars. A shaker filled with crushed red pepper squeezes forward and tumbles off the shelf. His left hand opensÊ thoughtlessly and catches the shaker at his hip. All the while his eyes remain on the celery salt and his reaching hand. This is the same as nothing.- Daniel Mitha

Photo Roe Etheridge
BACK