this is the woman who walked out of walls.

“Brevity is the soul of the witch, after all.”

–witches, sluts and feminists

I’ve ended up in lots of cities on whim alone and I ended up in New Orleans twice. Each time for a different conference and each time I snuck out to feel the waves of winds tremble in my fingers when the dead walked right through me. I didn’t return to any graveyards knowing that was my issue the first time. The way they followed me home and snarling. They way they wanted me to say their names. The way it was in December: the first vibration of my floorboards.  I went to the same reader twice. Each time, I was assured. Hydrated. I was called darling. I was looked over with tender curiosity, a visitor but some unnamed breadth to me. She was looking through me to test my transparency. I was limpid having once been a dusky vapor, returned to self a crystalline child; emptied and not wanting to be full again. Only in front of her. I needed her to see things accurately. The stakes had been raised. Disappointed but avid, I wanted the same man and I wanted to tell him about the year following him. The coffin of psychosis and the habitual reordering of items in my apartment. The cleaning. The women I fucked. The men I hassled. But it was a woman and she was fixated on Hawaii.

“You ever been to Hawaii?”

“No. I’ve thought about it though.”

“I think you’re gonna go there.”

She said it many times. Hawaii. You’re gonna go there. Definitely being called to Hawaii. I thought Hawaii was beautiful and she showed me the way the leaves formed kind of a volcano and I blinked. There are many volcanoes actually.

“Lots of place. Many places. Travel far and wide.”

She looked me in the eye.

“You’re going to end up in the west coast.”
I accidentally growled.

“You’re not happy about it but you will.”

I wanted to tell the man I almost moved back to Colorado. I wanted to tell the man I had visions upon visions of a woman with green eyes and a crooked smile and sometimes in my dreams, I had green eyes and a crooked smile. I wanted to tell the man that I once tried to get to Barcelona on a Canadian passport. I wanted to tell him I made it there anyway and navigated the entire country and Portugal knowing no Portuguese, very little Spanish and spent some time in Morocco during Ramadan without a cell phone and only American currency and no hotel to sleep in when we arrived and the whole city asleep for holiday. We spoke no Farsi but covered our heads and arms and  legs and my friend cried in the taxi. I smiled because I saw four sharks on the ferry over, never having seen them up close like that. She cried because I asked men for help everywhere we went. She didn’t like free dinners and I showed her seven euros in our pockets.

“Let them pay,” I said. “They like it.”

“You will meet many people,” she said. “Remember what it felt like with them the first time. When you first met. When you feel unsure about them, go back.”

She said I would go everywhere, have whatever job I wanted, get training when I need it and land on my feet. A feline. It was no shock to me the day I showed up to the JFK airport on my way to Barcelona with only an expired passport and a Canadian passport and no explanation about how my usual meticulous manner had fallen apart. I couldn’t explain to anyone how I ended up in Barcelona the next day, cutting my trip only a day short like I had just forgotten it at home and rebooked the flight. Not that I had to sit in a New York waiting room for three hours to get an expedited one faster than any other person in that waiting room as I charged my phone, as I argued with my airline. And on the only day they were running workshops that month. We found the one workshop in Manhattan. And in under 12 hours. I wanted to tell the man I ended up in Moscow  on that trip that year. I wanted to tell him I thought they might be right.  I wanted to pull the evidence from my pocket; the scroll I received from the fortune cookie I was given and devoured on my sixteen hour flight from Moscow to New York City. It says in both Russian and English: He who stands at the place, goes back.

 The day I arrived in Barcelona the first time, I said Hola so loudly you would have thought I was born there. But then nothing else so clearly.

“The woman who followed the men” or “The vampire story”

By the time I sat down, my entire back was soaked and my little silk button up dress, the one where the buttons just start unbuttoning as I walk, was stuck to me like I was stuck to this. Mesmerized by the way he swirled the cup with the coaster on top. The way he said darling. Not this right now but this then. This first taste of heat in New Orleans, the swelter of 3 pm and me, just drenched and begging for air conditioner and this swamp city’s revenge. Even then, I had only two concerns: us and them.  In front of me, he picked up the tea cup to show me the leaves and I was out of my depth completely but trusted his eyes. Kind, soft, a mellow green and shining. 

“Oh wow, this looks real good. Real good, honey. Oh yeah.”

He could have said anything in that accent. Honestly. I have mimicked it many times. And to keep me out of that oppressive heat for one more minute, I would have paid for one more hour. There was a cool glass of water next to him and I watched the sides condense and licked my lips regretting denying the second water bottle. Having to urinate now, but enraptured and barely having a sense of what he was really saying, I just fidgeted like usual. He was recording it. 

“Well, darling,” he began in his thick southern accent. “You are just the luckiest thing, aren’t you?.”

When I meet readers, I try to keep my face still and not glint that they are right. You have to test them. However, this was July 2016 and I was healthy, free, still young and there had been no promise of a new dictator yet. I smiled big, wide, like even though he had said nothing, the clock began ticking. 

“Oh, there will always be a job for you. People just hand you things. Nothing to worry about there. Nothing at all. Oh, this is looking good!” he squealed.

This was before anything hit. This was when I was tan all the time from walking and my hair was too long and glued to my neck and I was gay and in love and dreaming of a woman. This is when I was playing Pokemon Go. This is when I was not informed of ritual but mired in the emergence of it regardless. This was before. Anything. My thighs were red from sun and hurt when I pinched them to keep from moving.  I smiled.

“Do you want children?” he asked.

This was before. This was before. 

“I’m not sure.”

But what I really meant was that I don’t always have the poignance to explain what it means when I can’t honestly say no but I know what happens when I try to say yes, and it’s immense. The dissonance in feeling and action. Wanting and then reneging. Or pursuing but knowing it’s vanity. It’s better to waft then make demands of men. This was before. Before I began to follow them, I once asked a cup of tea if I might be the luckiest woman alive. Before I chased their cologne around alleyways and into the corners, I once consulted the occult to show me if I’m playing the right cards. Before I entered their brownstones draped in black turtleneck and a very calm virile, I hedged my bets. Before I met you, a reader once said our hands would shake, like not a greeting but an uncontrollable tic and our eyes would meet and it would be known. Before I followed the men, I only stared back at one to melt like the skin of my back today in the plastic chair in the silk dress that is becoming unbuttoned as we speak. Before I followed the men, I wrapped my thighs in garter and letter opener and knives.

I always lift my skirt to show them the left leg with the letter opener rather than the right one with knife.

“You ain’t got a thing to worry about darling. Not at all.  Like a cat you always land on your feet. You have nine lives.”

“The woman who followed the men”

I’m assiduous. That’s the first thing I write down. Sometimes I make notes like that to start my day in hopes I become the adjective I claim. I’m really wasting years of my life passing the same trash barrels daily. I read graffiti: BET. It’s everywhere.  I cannot tell you what intersection I am standing on at any given moment and sometimes I pretend I don’t live here to get out of giving directions when I’m caught, staring, confused. Assiduity. The ability to persevere even in hostile climates. That’s not the definition. That’s how I remember the word. Acid. Harsh. Hard to swim. But I can do it. God’s favorite mermaid.

Today was a normal day. As in I was myself, not an alias and dressed like it: hoodie, sneakers, jeans and beanie. I wore no makeup. I wore my reading glasses. I really needed them to be honest but I hate having obstructions. They always get smudged and I fear that my predilection for constant cleaning is scratching them. There’s always glitter around the rim. Nothing stays clean.  I could clean for days if the world just stopped. On these days, it’s easier to just exist without defense so I am perpetually softer as the walk goes on. Not that I don’t stand tall, but I don’t feel it necessary to walk on tiptoes as i do on days when I wear dresses, my wigs, my lips painted and my red nails out. Today, I crouch. I am wearing a surgical mask over my mouth and nose and purple latex gloves. There is a gray cat with green eyes mirroring me.

“Hey,” I say and can feel my hot breath stick to the mask and bounce back to me. It’s not acrid but unpleasant, unusual. Not an odor but a temperature. This is how I know. “I’ve seen you before.”

The cat makes no move and looks a bit quilled. I had seen her before. Yesterday, sniffing around old bean cans in the recycling.  I don’t make any moves and miss the way strange fur feels in my bare hands. I miss the way cat’s whiskers feel on my cheeks. I miss the way they rush your lap if you sit long enough. It is trash day, or trash day(s) now that we don’t know when the trash is being picked up. It can be Thursday. It can be Friday. It can be Saturday. Today is Saturday.  She was picking crust out of a pizza box before I came along, but she dropped it when she saw me. Now, she is crouched under a chair someone tossed out and I am on my knees, hands on my thighs, three feet away and squaring her.

“If I come back this way later, will you let me pet you?”

I can’t pet dogs anymore. I am not allowed near their owners. The cat makes no move. My back hurts. I shouldn’t have gotten on the ground. It’s hard to get up. I open the purple gloves to see little bits of gravel and wipe them on my jeans. I shouldn’t have touched the ground.  The cat makes no move as I ponder my hands. I can feel them sweating through the gloves. I want to take them off. This is a protection for me and my tactility; my assiduity that forces me to case the town in wonder. To trace the tips of my fingers along the lines.

“I’ll be back.”

My right knee pops and a knot tightens in my lower right hip. Assiduity. The ability to age during a mass contagion. I continue walking east, feel droplets of moisture build on my wrists and a ray of sun hit my cheek. I turn around at the corner and the cat is still staring at me. I wonder who pets her. I wonder if she’s been pet. 

There are several cats on my walk, nothing else. The only people out have dogs and I avoid them. I cross the street. The dogs nearly choke on their collars trying to get close to me and sometimes I look their way but it hurts. I do sneak my finger out sometimes to feel the wetness of their snouts and they lick my fingers quickly. Their neck strained, almost in gallop. I count twelve dogs and five cats.  I would normally touch them but it’s not for me, it’s for them. Their owners. I’m immune. Assiduous: ability to adapt quickly to hostile environments by giving close care to detail about what is now and what is required to continue. That’s not what the definition means; that’s just how I remember I am immune to the wreckage but carry it daily. Like a deluge, I’m constantly respirating.

I am in front of a bodega that is still operating and I see a man in a mask like mine carrying a crate of oranges inside and I don’t put distance between us but I don’t cough either. BET. It’s everywhere. I am looking at the brick wall in front of the bodega so I don’t make eye contact. In bright white spray paint it says BET$.  I used to spend my days making eye contact and small talk and saying please and petting dogs and being the most innocuous thing in the world. Today, I am a stinging particle of breath. Immune but trapped in it. The contagion herself and I can’t stop walking. 

“The woman who walked for miles”

Right before it hit, I began counting all the items in my cupboard. One can of chickpeas. Four cans of black beans. Four cans of red beans. Four bags of split peas. Three bags of lentils. Four cans of white beans. Three cans of tuna. One box of crackers. One container of popcorn kernels. Half a roll of paper towels. Spices, innumerable.  This is not enough. I was making one to two runs tops, hopefully. Soon. Replete with agitation suddenly, I change direction even though the cabinet task is not complete.

I begin to count my knives. One lithe Oneida blade, skinny, sharp both blade and handle; a coveted one I use often. I tuck that back in the drawer. To be used for slicing vegetables.  Twelve regular steak knives. Some of them were rusting but still capable of cutting. I pull out four. Placing two on the kitchen island, I make a mental note to take them upstairs. Placing one a little near it, I make a mental note to tape the other under the seat of my car. Placing the one near the french press, that will be my altar knife. I move to the wooden block.  My parents had gifted me a knife set years ago that I did not use until now. It was one of those that came with a dozen different kinds and they all stood tall in their slit. Rusted as well but capable. Butcher knives and meat cleavers and little steak knives. Things I didn’t use because I didn’t eat meat but always kept just in case. I took one of the large cleavers and placed near the back door, inside my house but under a vase. Not obvious to anyone but me.  I took one of the butcher knives and placed it under my couch next to a hammer and a baseball bat. I don’t like to feel limited in choice. I go back to counting: 

one large orange butcher knife, separate and a favorite that I keep for slicing tofu,  and five other meat cleaver or butcher knife types left in the wooden block. They are dulled but can cut. One switch blade. One box cutter. Two pairs of scissors; one regular size, one tiny. Seven butter knives which are good for spreading butter or peanut butter but nothing else. I also have two pepper sprays: one in my bag and one on my nightstand hidden under lace, near a flashlight. I have two packages of batteries, two flashlights, a case of potable water and two jugs of water as well. Someone dropped off bleach, alcohol, gloves and methanol on my doorstep last night. I add that to the tally.  

I tuck the switch blade back in my pocket to become used to carrying it everywhere I go. I take it back out, realizing I havent opened it in a while. I practice. That is, I squeeze the indent with my thumb and middle finger but I am not fast like in the movies so it always takes a second. This embarasses me. I don’t consider myself greatly agile but competent, but also crippled by time and my straw habit that I push from my mind. Generally, I’m  also cumbersome so I just decide to keep it out. The blade that is. It is relatively sharp though I’d have to get close to you to press into you. It’s dainty looking and unassuming which is what drew me to it in the first place. Blue tint with a painting of a woman taking off her bra, not facing us so all we see is her back and hands reached to clasp. Coquettish and pretty. A man bought it for me from France as a gesture of good will. Something I crave. Not the goodwill, but his submission. 

I close it and put it back in my pocket of my pants. I know I will leave it open hidden under lace. But just feeling the weight of the weapon is enough to calm me. As I begin to count more things, I begin to rest my jaw.  I have one canister of coffee, one box of trashbags, two bottles of dishwasher detergent, plenty of forks: both metal and plastic, as well as spoons. Half a bag of sugar. Countless cartons and packages of tea. Enough pots. Enough pans. One kettle. Half a pack of vegan butter. Half a carton of almond milk. One container of ketchup and mustard respectively. Many bags of frozen vegetables. My jaw is set on relax. 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.  

What I will remember most right before it hit, is all the doors slamming shut and me laughing later. Big and hearty like the way Santa Claus laughs on television. When we used to touch our faces, I used to slowly graze my cheek with my finger nail and whisper things to men.

\

Right before it hit, I began counting all the items in my cupboard. One can of chickpeas. Four cans of black beans. Four cans of red beans. Four bags of split peas. Three bags of lentils. Four cans of white beans. Three cans of tuna. One box of crackers. One container of popcorn kernels. Half a roll of paper towels. Spices, innumerable.  This is not enough. I was making one to two runs tops, hopefully. Soon. Replete with agitation suddenly, I change direction even though the cabinet task is not complete.

I begin to count my knives. One lithe Oneida blade, skinny, sharp both blade and handle; a coveted one I use often. I tuck that back in the drawer. To be used for slicing vegetables.  Twelve regular steak knives. Some of them were rusting but still capable of cutting. I pull out four. Placing two on the kitchen island, I make a mental note to take them upstairs. Placing one a little near it, I make a mental note to tape the other under the seat of my car. Placing the one near the french press, that will be my altar knife. I move to the wooden block.  My parents had gifted me a knife set years ago that I did not use until now. It was one of those that came with a dozen different kinds and they all stood tall in their slit. Rusted as well but capable. Butcher knives and meat cleavers and little steak knives. Things I didn’t use because I didn’t eat meat but always kept just in case. I took one of the large cleavers and placed near the back door, inside my house but under a vase. Not obvious to anyone but me.  I took one of the butcher knives and placed it under my couch next to a hammer and a baseball bat. I don’t like to feel limited in choice. I go back to counting: 

one large orange butcher knife, separate and a favorite that I keep for slicing tofu,  and five other meat cleaver or butcher knife types left in the wooden block. They are dulled but can cut. One switch blade. One box cutter. Two pairs of scissors; one regular size, one tiny. Seven butter knives which are good for spreading butter or peanut butter but I had threatened a man once with a knife like that. We got nowhere.. I also have two pepper sprays: one in my bag and one on my nightstand hidden under lace, near a flashlight. I have two packages of batteries, two flashlights, a case of potable water and two jugs of water as well. Someone dropped off bleach, alcohol, gloves and methanol on my doorstep last night. I add that to the tally.  

I tuck the switch blade back in my pocket to become used to carrying it everywhere I go. I take it back out, realizing I havent opened it in a while. I practice. That is, I squeeze the indent with my thumb and middle finger but I am not fast like in the movies so it always takes a second. This embarasses me. I don’t consider myself greatly agile but competent, but also crippled by time and my straw habit that I push from my mind. Generally, I’m  also cumbersome so I just decide to keep it out. The blade that is. It is relatively sharp though I’d have to get close to you to press into you. It’s dainty looking and unassuming which is what drew me to it in the first place. Blue tint with a painting of a woman taking off her bra, not facing us so all we see is her back and hands reached to clasp. Coquettish and pretty. A man bought it for me from France as a gesture of good will. Something I crave. Not the goodwill, but his submission. 

I close it and put it back in my pocket of my pants. I know I will leave it open hidden under lace. But just feeling the weight of the weapon is enough to calm me. As I begin to count more things, I begin to rest my jaw.  I have one canister of coffee, one box of trashbags, two bottles of dishwasher detergent, plenty of forks: both metal and plastic, as well as spoons. Half a bag of sugar. Countless cartons and packages of tea. Enough pots. Enough pans. One kettle. Half a pack of vegan butter. Half a carton of almond milk. One container of ketchup and mustard respectively. Many bags of frozen vegetables. My jaw is set on relax. 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.  

What I will remember most right before it hit, is all the doors slamming shut and me laughing later. Big and hearty like the way Santa Claus laughs on television. When we used to touch our faces, I used to slowly graze my cheek with my finger nail and whisper things to men.

\

“I am prepared now to force clarity on you.”

–Louise Gluck