As a kid, in the sixties, I lived on the west side of Manhattan. A knife sharpener arrived every Thursday, pulling his cart half way up the block, stood and banged a pot with what looked like a ladle. Then the ice man. I can’t remember what days he came, but more often than the knife sharpener, also with a cart, but a smaller one, the blocks of ice covered with a frosted tarp. A big set of tongs draped over one shoulder, scraper shoved into a belt loop along with his paper cups and bottles of red and purple syrup for ices.

Medicaid came and the mental institutions closed. I thought it was normal for people, civilians, to occupy intersections and direct traffic. Uniformed officers also did that. Back then cops on the beat twirled billy clubs and hummed. You saw the same guy every day and he’d let you try on his hat sometimes. But the insane helped out with traffic flow, every now and then one of them tried it without clothes and only then would they be asked to leave. For the most part anybody with moxy and a whistle could stand there and contribute. Normal.

Hekate stands at the crossroads, where she belongs, directing traffic if need be, most of the time just standing. Writing projects are still being manufactured, one by one, roughly in order received and with respect to their degree of preparedness. There’s a backlog of work, maybe two years worth, given the time she spends in the underworld. In the meantime, she advises you to keep working hard. Send your work everywhere and try not to seek accolades, herrings for magic tricks. Learn how to make things disappear for real.