sequestered,
I begin to count:
fourteen days left.
pull the first knight:
swords.
I love counting, addition. And theorizing. When you take one thing away, how many more do you need to replace to feel safe? This is innumerable. That is, you can’t manage that thought because it’s gaping. I feel prepared for things when I have more of them. I feel safe in math.
I wish I could keep accurate track of myself. I am wearing my armadillo suit now. I left the store tonight and gave a man change: a dollar bill. I always do it at Wawa. They always ask and I always do it. When I am in line, I get a dollar bill out and hold it and hold the coffee in my other hand. It’s not a thing to me. I walked to get decaf knowing it would disgust me to have it but feeling high and untethered, I needed some mission of some sort. Something docile and childish to control myself. I had lost all mission or virtue. No. No no no. Something else: the bellows of the daily news, the sleet, the thirty degree weather. I was staving off the winter blues. When I began to leave the store, I could feel another man closely behind me. He told his comrade not to beg for money after I stuck a dollar in his cup. That was Muslim law, he said. I could tell by his tone that he was going to keep pace with me, or rather, I would keep pace with him.
He followed me for twenty feet and began to whisper slut, I know you can hear me. Which was factually true though, I am promiscuous at times and I had earbuds in and a song playing so I could have drowned him out but I didn’t. He quickly got in front of me too, even though I was in front of him, he made sure to pass me. He chanted slut, you think you’re better than me. Which was factually true though only because of my sheer politeness. Rudeness annoyed me. Although I have screamed at people. I have lost it before. He yelled slut, I know you can hear me and you’re following me. Slut, why are you following me? It was like when my brother used to put his finger close to my face but not touch me, or or follow me throughout the house six inches from me at all times, bored, full of hormones and I would collapse squalling because factually he was right. He wasn’t touching me. All my mother said was: “Alex, don’t touch her!” Whenever I begin with actually, you can say I’m being smarmy.
“Actually, I have music on and I’m trying to listen and you’re following me.”
He turned around, and because he was in front of me, my case weakened.
Before he could say anything, I said, and when I start with a swear, it is because my spine has bubbled into acid and is eroding slowly all the way up.
“Motherfucker, I’m not following you, I’m just walking. You’re the one who keeps talking to me,” I said.
We carried on for a solid minute and I passed him to say:
“See, you are following me.”
Most women won’t do this I learned. Especially at night.
“I can’t even walk without being harassed, I am going to call the police,” he said.
I then crossed the street out of politeness and absorbed my temper which was blaring and sometimes really honest. I felt like I had hurt him differently. Somehow with my charity. I had proven my point anyway. Factually, I could walk really fast, was walking fast, and was going to walk even faster so if he kept it up, I could stop a stranger and present to them a simple math challenge. They would nod and say: “Indeed, based on the direction both parties are walking, I would say he is following you.
My arms will be crossed and I will squint. Sometimes when people squint, you have to watch their mouth. When they cock it to one side, that’s the peacock.
Two other men appeared to be following me that night and when I turned around, one went the other way and one seemed like a fluke. I had stopped many times, engrossed in a thought about the man who called me a slut for fifty feet. That may have been why two men were watching me later. But that’s what danger does. Conceals. It’s 830 pm, I’m alone walking the city of Philadelphia. Danger conceals and lurks. That’s what I do. Lurk. If the two men looked at the note in my phone, it would simply read:
I want to be soft.
And they would lower their arrow.
I hold onto this tracking for a day or two. I can tell this will be the problem; the lapses. It’s unequivocally my fault. My meandering is a making of my own cruel device. Prone to very long bouts of dissociation, it grows legs. That means I go on fugues. That’s what the hospital says: fugue, but real short and if I said it, it would be elongated. I h a v e a d i s s o c i a t i v e d i s o r d e r. So it’s elegant and Virginian, kind of mysterious.
I know how my habits start: strong, detailed, honored like idols whatever routine I set. Sweep the altar. Cover the altar. Marry the altar. Sing to each moon and with fervor. Set the house with rosemary. Line the tub with lavender. Line the door with salt. Don’t let anyone in who doesn’t know you. Don’t call entities by their name. Then suddenly, reverse and harsh and they call it chaos magick. Call entities by their name several times. Throw away all the presents. Remove the altar. Divorce the altar. Burn the altar. Throw the amethyst in the water, take it out, suck the tip. Devout and anciently catholic and strumming naturally along, carried on wind, not food, but deconstructing. All the time, I am devolving and then becoming.Thin and easily excitable, papery. You could cut me in half but like a starfish, I would grow more paper. My ex used to say interesting after everything I said. I hated him because he had a small penis and said interesting after everything I said. Physically. I am a little bony but appear more robust until you hug me. Then I am very small. I am tall but I have this amazing accordion ability to fold over into someone’s arms like a pile of bones falling into a pit. Perfect victim. Fall easily and shatter like glass when someone says my name. It’s why I am keeping journal. To track each failure in scrupulous detail. But I am prone to very long fugues. That will keep me distracted too.
I live on ignition. I’m at the corner of Spruce and 12th in sunglasses, hat, scarf, coat, no gloves, new straw. I haven’t eaten for hours. It’s one pm. I’m on my fifth cup of coffee, I have generally loose plans for today and myself as a whole, and I think: will I always be like this?
But I say it out loud and an old man looks at me. That’s the only interaction I have the entire day with another human.
What am I missing? Generally nothing but I don’t believe it so I go outside every day to check.
I trace my finger along the cream wall without gloves. I never wear gloves. Focus on the way the cracks fade into the pink of the painted flower from the mural on seventh street. Paint the slums. Or the run of the black spray paint and other stains left by time, like water leaked out the pipes and mixed with their tag. I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t see mold often but color drips from internal leakage and weathering, or the times someone peeled it with their fingernail. Or the times the plaster just broke off. I see a lot of breaks in foundation. Cracks. I watch walls for minutes as I walk through the town. I’m always looking at cracks and the changes in texture. Like fissures. Like they are tributaries. I trace my fingers over them. This is when we could touch things. It was my favorite thing to do–touch things.
They are all so bright–teal, green, chartreuse, yellow, carnation, orange, clementine, blue, azure, sapphire, white, eggshell. Painted like slums. They paint slums all the time. I name the colors to keep my brain sharp. Green: verdure. Red: carnise. It actually kind of works that simply. The shades of red have many names. I prefer to name them accurately. It’s a nice trick too; little boxes of adjectives. Blood-red. Crimson. People feel more alive in color. Florid. I touch the light verdant siding of a house with the cardboard box full of diapers in front. There are lawn decorations crowding the stoop: a windmill, a leprechaun, some kind of gnome, a plastic plant. In the window a fat woman with red hair and big red lips sits and holds a sign that says “God Bless This Mess.” Irish.
I like to feel things even if they’re sharp and cold like frost on a metal pipe with white letters, it says “BET.” This is near the fence to someone’s backyard. I care nothing about how they feel about me. I take a picture of it. I am always stopping in front of someone’s house to write a thought down or change the song. If people looked out the window, they’d think I was unusual, maybe hallucinating, creepy. Some people have seen me case things and they call me dexterous and stealthy and know to stay away from me. That’s why I am keeping the journal now: to keep track. Of the several sides of it. I want to be portrayed matter of factly and precise as I always was. Stern. I want only facts. When they read it, I want them to describe both my motives and my findings with complete tip top rightness.
I never wear gloves and I carry my clear cup with the sky blue rubber wrapped around it for my palm to stay cool while I sip hot beverages. Though, I could use the shock of a burn to wake up most times. Everywhere I go, I bring the cup and say please. After everything, I say please and also thank you. This is the most southern thing about me besides how long it takes me to finish a sentence. G e n e r a l l y I c a n t a k e m y t i m e. We call that drawl. Northern men are stunned by it. Like fishing hook. When they turn on me, they say it’s the most affectatious thing about me but I would say that’s my politeness. Watching girls get slapped across their faces for not calling their mother ma’am doesn’t make obedience innate, it makes it probable you’ll repeat the behavior for a lifetime even if you don’t see any more little girls get slapped for not saying ma’am.
I need some reason to be here, out in the world; skeptical but full of energy so I plant stops along the way. I know the baristas at every coffee shop within a one mile radius, not by name but by sight. How they wear their eyeliner (cat wings or “regular”) or how they wear their hat (yes or no and for winter or pleasure) or their tattoos (elbows, arms, shoulders, calves, and what detail of work and if there is color and if I actually like the tattoo or just think they are brave for sitting for that one and if I think they are cute enough to compliment). Wedding rings. I smile. I use exact change. I tip everyone double what the person in front of me tipped. I squint when I’m pretending to think so no one talks to me. I take up the smallest amount of space in corners. If I can’t see the rings, I know they are married by how they shyly turn around, not squarely, not young and seeing my youth, become coy. Like they could reverse time. I am older than I look. I want to say this matter of factly to them but don’t want to engage either. I would use the word slimy out loud to describe the way their lips peel from their teeth when we accidentally meet eyes but I always cough. Take the high road. A loud cough into my sleeve so I can naturally turn and if I don’t turn around again, it’s because I’ve coughed and was forced to change direction. This is when we could still cough in public as a deflection method. I have a way of avoiding people that invites them to look further at me, yes, ok. I have no reason to linger in this store except I am cold and waiting to be less cold.
I touch three dogs today.
Suddenly, I am stopped in an apartment complex, at the edge of the parking lot. These moments can be frightening but I have tools. I have no recollection of stopping and I see children in a distance staring at me so I know I was speaking out loud. In the middle of my path, there is a large stone in front of my feet. This is a good diversion. Rubbing it beneath my sneaker, I appear to be engrossed in this activity. Almost as if that was the point. The sensation of the rolling loosens my hip and I become enthralled in this activity for several more moments because it is such an acrobatic movement. Losing sight of the children and all purpose, I begin to talk out loud freely again. I should note I am also very high on drugs. I have forgotten why I stopped and noticed how dirty my sneakers were but also my hands are brittle and feel like they may snap. This takes precedence though I am alarmed by the tightness of my hips. I catch myself saying “that will be more of a problem later but your hands are a problem now” out loud and then I am awoken by the sound of someone clapping behind me. The children. I consider taking the stone for my altar but ultimately walk away, not kicking it either. It is set there for a reason: anyone feeling scathed or unsafe could pick it up, use it as a weapon. I see these things in my head sometimes. I look behind me towards the direction of the clap to see three families watching me now. The parents are out. I don’t live here. I am a stranger. A small boy on his bike, steadying it with just his torso balance and long legs, holds my attention. He moves the bike back and forth without using his hands. The whites of his eyes shine from here.
It is anyone’s guess what I said to the rock as I mumbled that whole time and truly only they have any idea how long I stood there. My pace quickens but not by much. Pulling a straw out of my pocket, I laugh out loud. Begin to gnaw on it like its jerky. Like its edible. I gnash it. The dentist told me to stop this but self soothing is an insidious mechanism. They see this as well: the jerking movements, me pulling the spit covered straw out and twisting it in my hands as I begin to walk away. So unusual. This is when you could touch things still and put them in your mouth. Still unusual but not disgusting. They see me kick the rock into the bushes suddenly. I continue back towards my house. The little boy squints from a distance. Squinting denotes a range of emotions so you have to pay attention to body language. I can’t hear him but I can imagine it. When they suck their teeth like that, it’s because they thought of it. phh. That’s the peacock. The movement of the rock to the bushes alerted him the rock still existed and where it could be found again safely nestled out of sight from everyone but him
december 13 xxxx
It is refreshing to be out here. Elbows creak as I stretch them, pop. Joints delineate from their socket. I’ve been stuck in stone. Kick my left leg out and drop the brown jasper. Fuck. Just think things today. Brace it between my middle and index finger of my right hand, the more dexterous of the two. Still clutching the seltzer bottle, I gulp down the rest to have more flexibility. More literal wiggle room.
“What would you like me to do today, dark lord Lilith?” I ask in a bit of a British accent, tossing the bottle into the trash.
Check to see I still have the jasper. I have a ceremonial leer and a black lace dress to match, bright orange sneakers that don’t make a sound and a bit of a tall stalk if I don’t have to crouch. When he turns the corner, I turn the corner. Walk steady. Keep about twenty feet between us and I don’t hum out loud. When he turns the corner, I turn the corner. It’s true, I’m a bit avaricious. Also only contented as victor: battled, but crowned. I have a giant red stitch going down the side of my right ribs from where my body caught metal fence. Keep about twenty feet between us.. Turn my headphones down. Keep at least fifteen feet between us and when he stops at the stop sign, I loll and time-tested, it’s true, I can walk for miles.
“Sada”
“The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers. You can do anything you decide to do. You can act to change and control your life; and the procedure, the process is its own reward.” Amelia Earhart
You couldn’t hear them move over the forest floor. The snow was fresh and soft like powder. Each step left an imprint but no resounding echo. You could only hear their breathing. You could not hear their steps.
Algid and windless, the day smacked without breeze. It used its atmosphere like a cave of teeth biting you on the cheek, or on the wrist if your glove slipped down. Your neck if it had become exposed. They had no choice but to walk through. The tension combined with the dropping temperature and lack of water, snack or any sense of direction; how does one not go mad with fury? It was the middle of January, seventeen degrees and she felt it.
Hardly any birds circled so they were mostly trapped in the infinite stillness of the woods and the remnants of a harsh blizzard that slowed them.
“It’s the eye of the storm.”
“Okkkk….but that doesn’t mean it’s not coming back.”
“It’s not,” she texted.
She bet her friend didn’t check her weather app. She bet her friend didn’t question her. She bet her friend trusted her to lead.
“Watch, I bet we get the yellow car,” she said to her friend the day they stood in line at the amusement park.
It was hot then, shining, blissful. They had eaten nothing but sugar. They were waiting to go to the final water ride of the day, spent, thirsty, aging yet jubilant. The trams were in no particular order, randomized, and every time they waited, she guessed.
“ I guess with about a 98.4% accuracy.”
Leana laughed loudly next to a woman’s ear, so loudly she shot them a look only Cat saw.
“Yeah, ok.”
“What? I have been right every time.”
“That’s 100% though.”
Catarina tapped her thigh to keep the time as they stood.
“Well, you can’t be right every time.”
“True,” Leana said, sort of smirking, half engaged, half stuck in her own secret fixation.
Catarina kept her hands free of the straw most of that day, preferring to play with the strap of her bag or the cap of her aluminum water bottle. She tapped her thigh only in line sometimes. They were engaged off and on but paused when it happened.
“Did I tell you about the time I drove my car into the car dealership?” Leana suddenly said.
“What?! Tell me now.”
But the train was rolling in. Both women’s eyes widened as the big yellow tram rolled up. Cat smiled the biggest and threw a look behind her exposing all of her teeth.
“Now, you trust my psychic ability?”
Everything was hiding. The snow had ceased but every once in a while a tree shook when a bird perched and a big clump fell startling them. They would both look up, unspeaking and resentful and a growing worry between them. The cold was a barrier. The distance was a barrier. The unsettling feeling that this was not going to end was a barrier They heard a crow call a few hours ago; at least three or four hours ago. They hadn’t spoken since she looked up and said,
“It must be noon.”
Her friend didn’t question it or speak to her. Cat turned slightly to check on her. Her breathing was labored. Her cheeks were bright pink and dotted with tiny drops of ice. Leana’s face was pallid, stinging, her endurance waning and their breath came out in synchronized huffs.Together, they marched but separate, each in their own quiet obsession. Catarina was counting hours. Catarina was reviewing lists. Catarina had practiced this walk, had a deep resolve, a spine made of knife and her knees were going to buckle but she knew what adrenaline can do. She drew hearts on her hand with each passing hour. The only time she pulled down the glove. Pockets devoid of cell phones, only a sharpie and some protein bars, there was no cell service here. She had advised Leana to keep her cell phone in the car so she didn’t lose it. Pliant for show only, Cat reassured her.
“I have a metronomic heart, you know. I can always tell the time”
Leana trudged behind her, adjusting her parka and getting ready for the first small incline.
“Cat..”
This was hours ago, when they were friends. She turned, bright, dawning, her auspicious eight am self: well fed, hydrated, head covered but face still exposed. She smiled to show her teeth.
“You’re full of shit.”
All they saw were endless groves of bare trees dotted with sparse patches of evergreens; a brightening to the dense forest of trunks. An interminable white crystal blanket to cross kept them moving, reserved and privately poignant. All conversation had ceased between the two friends. You could only hear breathing. You could not hear their steps.
Catarina guessed it was about three or four pm. They had gotten lost, separated from the trail and if they were not out when the sun finally went down, there was no way they were going to survive. She could see it in the distance: the veiled sun, the yellow halo obscured by boundless gray barely shining through the clouds. The sky heavy and pregnant with fresh blizzard. It was an unforgiving winter. It had been and remained unforgiving now. The sunset they faced would turn to black without portrait. We will survive, she had lied. She knew that soon she would hear the twig snap and that she would run. She didn’t know what her friend do but she did know she would hear her scream. She would dart across the forest as fast as she could. She would sprint. She would sprint the whole way without looking back or without time to reflect on her reflex. She would have no time to wonder.
Forget the whole thing. It was agony to know and it didn’t seem fair. Wear the blindfold. None of this was fair. But she did see the wolf. She was reaching to pull the pen out to mark the four pm chime in scrawl on the veins of her left hand. A ritual of safety. That’s how they met. He was gray and white with yellow eyes. Low to the ground and keen, he held a silent snarl between his teeth. She couldn’t hear their steps. Her head lowered, she did not reach past her hips any more. Heedful, without making a sound, she turned her head slightly to the left. From her periphery, she saw his friend skulking carefully and quietly on the other side of them, low and snaking through the branches. Walking this clearing for the past five or six miles exposed them. It will be faster, she said. She already knew.
At least one branch had fallen and the wolf wouldn’t see it. He would step on it just as he was getting ready to pounce and she would be afforded an extra second that would propel her. She kept her eyes and head down. She inhaled and felt her pulse begin to thrum and warm her body in anticipation. She began to lift the balls of her feet. She began to clench her palms into fists and from her right, she heard the snap. From the left, she felt the hesitation. She knew there were only those two. She began to run. You could not hear them breathing. You could only hear screech turn to scream and then only her own breath quickening in time with sprint; each quickening step. You could hear a flutter of wings above, one call and if you had time to look up, you’d see a flock of blackbirds pushed to movement from the violence below. But there was no time to look up.
“The Woman Who Saw Her Own Death” (or “The Woman Who Ran From Wolves”)
My hand was still there, I thought. In his. Sweating, and he was dumbstruck at her, mouth agape and I was staring at the twins through the fire. They were also staring through the fire. My other hand was on my leg plucking at the garter without me noticing at all. From my periphery, I could see the alien admiring my thigh, or what I thought maybe–the etched star atop it.
“Bravo, Freya!” the man who offered me the beer said. “And way to intimidate us all!”
I pulled my hand away without meaning to just instinct. Suddenly very close to a stranger and also being pulled the other way. I was squinting towards the man but trying to look at the cloaked woman too. Had I really just been twirling in the center for an hour?
“This suggestion for a theme was from another guest actually and I should give more details before we continue,” she waved her hands towards the fire. “Especially since there are new people here. But I just wanted to make sure I was first.”
“Naturally,” a woman laughed.
I hadn’t noticed many people yet. The woman laughing also had a dark bob and was wearing all black but no cloak. More like shiny see through tights with black platform boots and a strappy halter but black nails, sharp, like the others. Next to her: a mousy companion fiddled with her hair and my mouth dropped open on accident. Someone cleared their throat. Freya. And she was peering at me; sticking her tongue out of her teeth a bit. I was digging both of my hands, claws out, into my skin and realizing I’d met the mousy one before.
“This is the woman who saw her own death. How we play is the first story sets the theme, the tone, the characters and all the little details. You have to use the elements already introduced,” she was stolid as she explained, with no gesturing, hands crossed in her lap. Lifeless. Kind of stoic. Even though that story felt alive, she seemed inert. “And continue the story about a woman who saw her own death.” She paused. “Other than that: be creative and of course, don’t be last.”
She smiled. I held back a cough.
“Isn’t there like a rule or something?” another man spoke, to her left.
He tapped her thigh. She stared at him but didn’t say anything. They seemed intimate. My throat felt dry and I had something stuck in it. Like I couldn’t swallow. I just kept needing or wanting to swallow and couldn’t. I felt dizzy. I felt Sansom put his hand back on mine. I didn’t turn to look.
“That was just a drinking game we played last year. No rule tonight. Just the theme,” she waved him off.
“I’ll go,” one of the twins interjected. “I have a good one.”
She ran her nails over her hair like she was going to tuck a strand in but didn’t which made me think it was a wig. I was also wearing a wig. They are stiff at times. I could see her eyes were very delicately painted as she looked at the ground. Her eyebrows were carefully drawn in an arc and in the same shade as her winged eyeliner; the same shade as her mascara. Perfect, steady, meticulous hands she had
“It’s called the woman who ran from the wolves.”
“Oh, that’s the rule,” the man snapped his fingers. “I remember, last year we said, put the titles at the end because it’s scarier.”
Freya nodded and held her hands out, “Continue. It’s fine. There was another rule too but we are past that.”
The woman smiled.
“Certainly, I didn’t ruin anything yet.”
Then she smiled even wider and her fangs were shiny in the glare of the fire and I caught her eyes: green. Bright green
It was 91 degrees and rising. Sunny. Saturday. A bit windy but a bright blue sky and I had been looking forward to the weekend since Monday. Home for a brief stop and my favorite place since I was a kid– the beach. I had the day off. Well, I took the day off. Fourth of July, let freedom reign. I got my best book and my old bikini and five seconds of space from my family, my colleagues, my friends. I was ready this summer for love. Ready for whatever may be. My tarot cards had been flashing Two of Cups and I was keeping an eye out. If there’s anything I trust, it’s tarot.
My mother let me borrow her folding chair, a towel, her flip flops. I always needed something when I went home. I always needed something in general. It was a littler windier than I would have preferred, as I said, so that sand whipped my thighs as I was getting ready. Better to wait on the suntan lotion, I thought. It was already too messy. But bright: bright, hot and sunny, like a heat storm which is unusual actually. On windy days, I usually see darker clouds even in the distance but the storm was coming and hadn’t caught up. Skies were serene, blue, clouds looked placid but the wind. Because I was starving, and I knew it would be bad but had to eat, I reached into the red and green Christmas colored bag my mother let me borrow as well.I had only brought a suitcase with the essentials: my laptop, my book, two outfits, underwear, socks, my three year old bathing suit that didn’t fit my breasts right anymore but I kept wearing it. The cup of the inseam twisted so my naturally crooked breasts looked even more crooked. Frugal and disheveled, I didn’t replace it. I also always brought my toothbrush even though my mother had one for me. I believed in packing light, and flight. I believed in moving.
The minute I opened my hummus container, the wind kicked up once more and blew all over the top so there was a nice grating as I bit into the first carrot stick. Nevertheless, she persisted. Persist in ideology, robustness, routine. Establish a routine. My new inflammatory flares were forcing me to eat differently, choose differently and make sure I ate breakfast, less coffee, less walking, more veggies. I dipped the second stick in and another gust blew. I turned my face to the left and felt a nice big chunk of sand land on my tongue. No more bread for me and all the better for it really. If I want to meet a mate, I’d have to shape up.
My friends say I’m lucky. That I’ve always been lucky. Yet, here I am, five years in a row alone and not always the better for it. Rough. I would say I’m getting rougher. I would say I’m getting scabrous, prickly to the touch. Like a cactus but drier inside. And empty. And void. I look at the stand to the right of me noting the yellow flag which means “Caution,” but not “Danger.” Not “Unallowed.” I place the hummus back in the bag and pull out the container of blueberries pouring a handful into my palm and then beginning to count. On red days, you can only really go calf deep. On yellow days, you have to swim by the stands. On green days, they didn’t blow the whistle that much. I stand up to brace the water. I came here to swim.
The sand was scalding hot. The sole of my feet burned a little on the way down. No reprieve, and my cheeks were whipped the whole way down. Hesitant for a moment, I turned back to face the chair once more. Something in my stomach lurched as I looked at it there, alone, made for one. I could hear my family’s laughter in the distance. Something in my chest hurt. I kept going. Dipping just my toes in at the shore line, the water was ice cold. Coriolis effect be damned, a storm was coming and had brought up the deep ocean currents. It was also July. August had more jellyfish but also warm water. When were there crabs? All the time.Growing up here, I knew everything about the beach.
I usually tried to avoid beaches with lifeguards because you can get away with more and my Everclear Slurpees were more hidden from sight on secluded spots or at night, but to be honest, that was a long time go. Today, it made me feel safe. The waves weren’t particularly large but there had been some rip current warnings at the beginning of the walkway. A sign was posted; probably always there but today I stopped and read it. Swim parallel to shore.
“I know,” I said out loud, as I began to wade.
I’m a strong swimmer and my friends say I’m lucky. I once ran headfirst into a cement mixer with my car and came out unschathed. Well, I broke my sternum and concussed mildly but the police didn’t take me to the hospital. They took me to jail for drunk driving. My head leaned against a metal toilet as I threw up all night and couldn’t see straight but I lived. I got that charge reduced to a first offense. I got that jail time reduced to house arrest and an ankle bracelet. I got that first arrest completely stricken from the record. I once also slid across the trolley tracks on my bike and flew headfirst into a car. Doctors said I was lucky I was wearing a helmet or else I would have concussed worse than I had, and probably worse than the cement mixer, and my glasses would have broken in my eyes. I fell through a treehouse and landed on a rusty nail that pierced only the rubber of my shoe, not even touching the foot. The glory of the ocean is current, tides, undertow. The glory of luck is timing.
I was up to my knees and waiting. Before I went to the beach today, I promised my guides I would do the ritual. Throw the blueberries in the water and say the right name. Thirteen of them. As I waded further in, I began to let one drop from my hand little by little so there was a curling line of blue dots at the surface for a moment. A fish darted past me. An omen.
“Whole body healing,” I said out loud.
And then dove in. Algid ripples cut through my skin like shards of ice were piercing me. Something pushed my torso backwards: an undulation, a phantom hand. Arising covered in goosebumps, I let out a long breath. Slowly, I let my toes touch the sea floor doing a quick sweep for broken shells that could cut or crabs that could pinch. Planted, I looked behind me to see if I could still see the fish. My body was pushed backwards by the force of the wave. I swiveled my body to the right a bit to see if I could still see my stuff or had it blown away? Squinting, I could see the little blue chair in the distance. Smiling, turning back to face her, a larger wave was forming. Get smacked or go under. I chose to dive in again. An underwater sway took over and my body was pulled towards it slightly and then pushed towards the floor. It felt like something was dancing with me but viscous, moving and in control. The tips of my toes pressed into the sand as I held my arms upward so I could propel myself back up. It was only three seconds since my head went under and my mouth opened again to salty air. It felt longer. Where I stood, I could feel the current pulling me backwards now. Had I not been firmly seeded in the ground, I may have floated further. I looked back to see if the lifeguard was still there. But I began to feel dragged.
I let my body take in what I was experiencing. Rip tide. Without any dawdling, I began to swim parallel towards the stand, a little further from my stuff.. I hit the trolely tracks the one time because I didn’t move perpendicular across them. It crossed my mind twice today, that accident. Once, driving here over the bridge and then again as I read the rip tide sign and hearing my friend says “you’re usually lucky anyway. Things have a way of falling in your lap>” She was referring to a job opportunity I was just offered to do private freelance consulting for less hours but more pay than my social work job.” This came shortly after I decided I wanted to quit social work and I hadn’t even applied for anything. But i’ve been fortunate in accident too. And I did feel my luck changing. I swam backs towards the beach perpendicularly for a moment, then parallel again. Then perpendicular, then parallel. What rip tides do is exhaust you. They pull you further and further out and because they are fast, they pull you far. They don’t take up the expanse of the short; just one line, but that one line is a bad place to be. You have to swim parallel to the shore to get out of the current, but it’s not easy and by the time you’re out, you’re far out. did about two more of these “T-movements:” to the left, then forward back to the beach. As I got my footing again, I looked to the lifeguard who seemed unconcerned by anything I was doing. She can see better than me. I felt calmer.
“Perhaps that was just a strong current,” I say out loud and see a family standing near the shore. “There are children in this water.”
But you can have rip tides form without knowing anywhere there are breaking waves. My gut dropped. I also felt something inside of me, underneath the water, some terror. I felt the pull of fingertips upon me. My head began to spin a little. Shivering, I begin to wade back towards the mother with her black curly hair and pink one-piece gripping her young daughter’s hand with her shorter but just as black and curly hair in a pony tail. Their bathing suits match.. They all have a dreadful look. Probably adjusting to the temperature. Her husband was wearing blue swimming trunks and has that typical dad bod; beer gut, mustache, sparse hair on chest and the son looks like my dead brother. Something in my sternum creaks. Old broken bones. Suddenly, very taken by my thighs glistening with droplets as I emerge, I keep my head down as I walk past them. I give the boy a glance but nothing more. His whole body is pale where the rest of the family is olive. Something in my heart moves. I hope the girl finds my blueberry. Or the fish that found my blueberry.
My seat is still there and covered with sand and I’m surprised it didn’t blow away. All that is weighing on it is sand that I had pressed on top of the two metal bottom bars and a prayer. My red and green Christmas bag too. My hands are a little shaky for some reason as I reach for my pink towel. I feel dizzy again. Plopping down without drying, giving up on it, pebbles stick to the back of my thighs.
“Ugh.”
I look down. I can’t get my breath.
“Ugh.”
The water must have kicked up my mild vertigo.
“Deep breaths.”
It helps to speak out loud when these attacks happen, although sometimes it helps to do nothing at all. Sometimes I sit clenched and don’t speak and barely breathe and my legs just fall off. I felt like I couldn’t move again. Like I couldn’t stand. Breathe. The wind kicked u. Sand got in my eye and I had to close it. Breathe. Then my face was hit. Ugh. Then I opened my eyes and there it was. The way you see things matters. The way you see them move. Right before something hits, your brain flashes: Oh. And it’s not like they say, I didn’t see my past. Well, I did but I didn’t see my past in this life so much as all the other lives coming together, coalescing into a nice tight and bitter coffin. The mordant taste of betrayal and several and today on my tongue: sandy and caustic. The knowing. The way I saw it first. The way under water I even thought, this isn’t it but it could have been. I’m a strong swimmer. The warning. The current, the warning. The dizziness, the warning. The way I read this article about something similar earlier. The way I rode over the bridge. The way I stopped in front of the sign. The way the umbrella flew towards me and some people think attracting luck means that the umbrella will blow past you but once the pointy end hit my chest, I knew it was something else.
Once my throat let out that air, that final air, I saw the first life of the hooded black women. Once my neck lobbed backwards and I now longer cared about the sand on my tongue, I saw myself walking across a lake of ice. As my tongue fell out, I could feel my body press into the bottom of the chair; once inexplicably sturdy, now tilting to the left. Once my lids closed and everything stopped, I knew that luck meant you’re hit, and you’re the legacy now.
“The woman who went to the beach”
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