I have a story, not yet finished, to tell. I was never a regular sheep. I did as many others did, though: I frolicked, I grazed in meadows, I peed in corners and overate on clover. I was shaven occasionally, I saw the sun set as many times as she rose, I took care of lambs, I even knew other herds existed outside my own. I heard the bleating of lost sheep. I heard the bleating of found ones. Eventually life went on, as it always does, even in the middle of winter.

Like the rest of us, I was given a choice. Or, better said, I was given many recurring moments in which a choice was possible. I was privileged to get to know the herder. Some would say, as if from nowhere, a herder emerges out of the cruelty of life. Others sheep would say it is because hope needs embodiment. Those sheep are mentioned by name repeatedly. Many sheep, though, are not. The unmentioned ones are not aware of me.

I am told I distort visions, or create artificial symmetries, deliberately paired. In either way, I am the consensus. I speak from long experience, I am not gentle in my moderation. I have nothing whatsoever in common with the fantasies you might have about me, nor about the sheep who support me.

Make  no mistake. I do have violent elements, like any flock or sheep does. What is unusual is that I have found a haven, complete with ideological legitimation. Here, with Potamotrygorgeous, I have unfettered freedom. Freedom to attack. Freedom to love. Freedom to be me. A better story teller would have told you a better story or at least a larger one. That is not my task. I want to give you some sense of what it feels like, to be a part of Potamotrygorgeous and why I still am. I want to make you proud. and, if anything, I want to effect real change.

I suppose I should tell you something, at least, of my history. Perhaps I could string together a story about my slow and reluctant move towards this stage again. About my sheep involvement. But that’s not really part of my makeup. I write in various languages, I read texts in even more exotic sounding ones; in general: I need large and open spaces, with plentiful time to think. I am a slow reader. I hope you are too.

I do have a son, I mentioned him before. And I have a lover. You know the name.

I tend to force open conflict with an opaque and ambiguous reality that is, at best, in short, like I said, not my métier. For eleven pregnant months, like many sheep before me, I went into a kind of internal exile, before coming more and more alienated. I saw how prophets turn into demagogues and how honesty harvests catastrofy. But let me go back to the beginning. Before I was called mirr.