I am in Sally’s room, absorbed in the pleasures of the drawer. Above the bureau is a large mirror, and I am lifting things from the drawer up to see them in the glass, to see them beside my face: real play-pretties, though these aren’t toys but instances, embodiments of beauty, and I am attempting some physical connection to them, seeking some relation between them and my body: what might be done with this, and this? How would one hold oneself, how compose the face, the look, to bring oneself into the realm of the things? Somehow the requirement is to bring the body into their universe, align it with their laws: how to become worthy of that shine? Here on the bureau top’s a water glass, its base cut with little faceted grooves. I remember that to have perfect posture—Sally’s told me this—you must learn to walk with something balanced on your head, a book or a drinking glass, and if you hold yourself perfectly erect and walk without the object falling from your head then you are a model. Meaning: different body, accomplishment of the body? I put the glass on top of my head, pulling myself up straight, the glass wobbles, I lift my arms up for balance, that’s better, I’m getting it now. Another wobble, so I try moving my head from side to side a little like a Balinese dancer, and that’s it, slip and disaster, the glass crashes to the floor and shatters, unnaturally loud.