The Hermit's Tablecloth

I made yet another effort to revert to the
other state, the one without a name. I
stared as hard as I could  at a red wine stain
on the paper tablecloth. I had already
tried that experiment and made it work
before. It was all a question of looking at
something until you no longer remember
what it was. It was supposed not to be a wine
stain any longer, it was supposed to become
something, I don't know what, on that other
thing, the tablecloth, which was no longer
a tablecloth, nor a white space, nor the site
of a stain. Thus I could extract not much, no,
but none-the-less a little, from that space in
something else indefinable but analogous to
a space somewhere else. It also put me into
the "somewhere else." Am I clear?

Eugene Ionesco, The Hermit, Trans., Richard Seaver,
New York & Co., (1987) 51.

(Media: gouache and charcoal pencil on acid free paper).