By six am, I was up, showered and dressed. Since no one was up, I dawdled in front of the mirror. I didn’t know where my chapstick was–hadn’t used it since I got here. My bottom lip was cracked and sore. It looked like I had developed a fat lip in the night, possibly biting it during my frenetic sleep. I ripped a loose piece of skin off of it and watched it turn from a grayish-pink to bright red. Touching it to feel the moisture, then tasting it to confirm, as if the mirror weren’t enough. My lip is bleeding.  Having slept for almost 15 hours, I was antsy to get outside. I wiped the blood on a tissue and threw it in the trash. The bed was wet from sweat, urine and smelled but I ignored. I didn’t tell anyone before I left the house and no one heard me. Quiet, stealth, I put my shoes on last. They were sneakers, not platforms, not heels like Camille wears. I never tell anyone anything. Though, I realized looking back it would have been better if I did. Then they would have known where I was. My phone was dead. I just needed to walk.I told myself not to go far. I told myself just to walk a mile. I told myself I fainted yesterday. I told myself the address twice just in case.
By 6:30, I guessed I was three miles away but f e e ling better. This is usual. I wasn’t hungry but I wasn’t passing out and the headache was gone. Stopped in front of another rancher, a blue one, I first noticed the awning: white, cracking, then the screen door with a giant hole in it.
“So many issues,” I murmured.
Then I was gliding, tiptoeing up the driveway like I didn’t want to get caught. As if I was going to break in. I don’t know what came over me. I was  being carried. There was a voice in my head that said go and I did. It wasn’t my voice. Snickering. There was snickering in my head. I was halfway up the walk when I felt my abdomen turn in on itself, like a mouth eating itself, or trying to swallow its tongue, then a rush of fluid up my chest. With less than a second and half of a blink, I keeled over and began vomiting.
“Hey, hey!” someone was yelling behind me.
I felt dizzy. Not just dizzy, but pressed to the ground like something was pushing me down.
“Hey!” a man was only five feet behind me. “Girl, are you ok?”
Whipping my head around, something flicked onto the edge of his pants. Streaks of yellow bile coated my chin. He backed up.
“Girl,” I laughed. “That’s so southern.”
Beaming up at him, I could feel the wetness of my chin. Snickering in my head.
“What?” he retreated another step.  “You ok? You live here?”
“No,” I pressed my palms down on the driveway to stand.
“Easy, easy, now.”
I could hear his steps without seeing him then felt him cup my arm.
“I need a phone.”
“ I got one.”
“I mean, I need a ride back.”
“I don’t have a car,” he said.
We made eyes when we stood together. Same height flat footed. His face was sunken, like he had lost weight unexpectedly or the way you look when you’re starving but he wasn’t that thin. Scrawny though, but strong. Had no issue helping me up. He had large brown eyes and a little gray on his beard. He was on a blue Schwinn wearing a blue t-shirt and jeans. He looked to be in his fifties. Smelling of cigarettes, maybe some whiskey, he reminded me of everyone.
“Can you call me a taxi?”
“Do you have any money?” he said.“I have a debit card.”
“Ok, ok,” he placed his hand in his pocket.
Watch out,  a voice in my head said.
“What?” I responded.
“What?” he looked at me, phone in hand, eyebrow lifted, closer to me then before.
Restive, in stillness feeling more disoriented, I began to walk. Took only one step towards and him and put my arms out. I’ll always remember the expression on his face: paused, confused but emollient. A grace took over him and he turned towards me as if we were going to dance. His hands were coarse and rough around my wrist, but his touch was easing, conciliatory. His lips were chapped like mine but not bleeding. Same height as me so our foreheads lined up. Bowing, I could see his Nikes were all black like mine, then spotted with yellow like mine as I let the last of my stomach empty onto them

Feeling less guilty about missing the conference, I napped the rest of the afternoon. My dreams were uneasy again. They always are in this town but this was exceptional. Last night, a white woman appeared to me, elderly, from the bathroom. I immediately was vexed, on edge and approached her solely to to choke her to death. As if it didn’t happen, I was then back in my bed but upright. It was this room except where the TV is, there was a mirror. Staring directly at it, I watched bats fly out of my mouth.I remember saying the phrase, I cannot help you, you are already dead and then waking up horrified at 2:30 am. I don’t know who I was talking too.  Today, a black woman appeared in the room shaking her head at me. I didn’t feel like she was going to be violent, yet I got up, punched a window to produce a shard of glass and held it at her. I awoke in sweat with a start. It was a similar feeling. Like they were there in the room. Like it was really happening. Sometimes it’s like that but here it’s worse. The clock read 6:56 pm. I had slept for nearly four hours. I was sharing the room with two others but all my clothes were off as were the covers. I could hear people downstairs and the sound of pots and pans. Without any try, my eyes shut and I faded back into the dream. 

This is the barn. The dream about the barn. Or the dream about the woods, the cabin. The cabin is inexplicably on fire and I am watching it from outside. Where I stand, there are droplets of snow falling lightly and when I turn around I am facing the woods. It’s the same woods. It’s the same dream about the barn. I begin to walk towards them. They are in a semi circle and one of them stands up. I never get too far. She always starts with her hands out saying “wait, wait. be careful what you say.” And then it’s like the movie cuts or time passes, I am in the ocean, in open water, surrounded by waves that are coming from both directions. Even if I knew where shore was, I couldn’t get there because i can’t tell which current is real.
When I wake up, the clock says 9:12 pm. There is no noise downstairs and I can feel my body shivering. I have pulled my two blankets over me. The light in the bathroom has been left on. I have to pee but piss myself instead.

At 10:30, Camille is shaking me.
“You need water.”
“I need sleep.”
“I’m taking you to the hospital.”“No, fucking way. I probably have the flu.”
She felt my head.
“You’re hot.”
“I have the flu!”
Turning towards the window, I ripped the covers from her hands.
“Geezus.”
“Two more days and I am back on the plane. Let me rest, Camille.”
“Fine, drink this water.”
“Put it on the nightstand.”
“Drink it now.”
I wondered if she could smell the sheets. I wouldn’t tell anyone. I am sure I would feel better enough to change them before we left. 
“No,” I moaned.
“Fine.”
And in her fashion, she slammed the door. Later, I would recall things differently but it was 9:17 pm and I was already drooling. I was on a beach watching a tidal wave form.

Pulled by thirst, the walk back was faster. I had not drank anything since 9 am and that was coffee: three cups. It was 12:15 pm.  I had to pee. My stomach rumbled. I had an apple in my bag that I ate on the walk back and nothing else.
“This is usual,” I say to no one tossing the core in the gutter.
Focus. The sky was clearing but my retinas were dotted with circles, little colored balls floating in front of my eyes. I didn’t notice anything but the pavement, slick and for no reason, a red bow on the ground, like a dog collar. Everything else was a blur.
The first thing I did when I got back is throw off my shoes. The second was get a glass of water. Third, bathroom. I felt dizzy as I bent over pulling the moist cotton over my ankle; tossing them on the porch. Ignoring the new blister, ignoring the rank sneaker, I trodded in leaving a spotted trail wherever I went. The water was tap, lukewarm. Well water.  They say well water tastes better.  I didn’t notice a thing  The fourth thing I did was take off all my clothes and  get in the shower. They say that’s when I fainted.

It was Mac who found me on the floor, water running over my naked thighs and pelvis. I hadn’t fallen but slid down the tile and rested so it looked like I was asleep in the upright fetal position. Apparently, Mac pulled me out and shook me a bit til I came to. Must have been all of five minutes, truly. Lucky for me, he said, I had skipped the panel too. I had left the door open in my haste. Mac had come right after me and dutily went to shut it when he saw, curtain open, on the floor. Lucky for me.
Lucky for me the group now watched me eat lunch in front of them. It was 1:45 pm. They had brought me a salad and french fries from wherever they were and I was expected to eat all of it at the table.  “You don’t eat enough,” Camille said.
I nodded and dipped my fry in the two dollops of ketchup they gave me.
“Or drink enough water.”
“I’ve been drinking water,” I swallowed quickly to gesture to the sink. “I drank seven glasses yesterday, I counted.”
“And today?”
“Today, I forgot.”
She was picking at her chicken. I was wolfing down pieces of iceberg.
“I’ve had a headache since I got here. That’s why I bought the neti pot. I think it’s sinuses or allergies…”
“Allergies don’t make you faint. Anorexia does.”
Camille had eaten five bites of her chicken and promptly got up to throw it out.
“Oh, ok.”
She put the kettle on the stove and began to boil water.
“For tea,” she said as she walked past me. “And the neti pot.”
I heard her move upstairs, still wearing her platforms clink the whole way up and close her door, heavy. Not a slam but close. I turned to watch the kettle, enthralled. 

I hadn’t been sleeping well and couldn’t pay attention in crowds so I’d skipped most of the conference. Plus, I was developing a serious migraine that was part too much exposure, too little water and part an endless clench and grind of my teeth from trying to manage myself in this group. By the time I arrived I was soaking wet. The rain soothed me; my head, my burning shoulders, the internal fever but now my sneakers sloshed. My feet squeaked as I walked towards the entrance of the hotel.
“Forgot your umbrella?” the doorman asked.
“Yes, I always do.”
“There’s a bathroom to the left with paper towels,” he gestured. “At least  you can wipe your face.”
He was an older black man in a proper uniform: black and gold bellhop attire complete with cap. Obsequious out of force. I nodded and kept past him. Something in my head split.  I had enjoyed the walk. I wasn’t wearing much makeup so nothing smeared and I liked my hair patted flat against my skull; no frizz that way. Humidity created bulk and anxiety created turmoil that wanted me to rip volume off. Can’t explain the drive to diminish myself any more than I can explain how I got from the house to here in a linear fashion. It took me an hour and forty minutes to complete a sixty minute walk. I could, I was thinking as I wrung the bottom of my dress out in the public toilet, tell you how many cracks were growing up the side of the yellow paned rambler that gripped me for several minutes, or how many cats slinked along the fences. (Four: one gray, two brown, one black with white paws and neck tuffs). The direction of the wind and further than that, where the lightning might start given the distance between the rumble of thunder and streak, how the rain started tepidly before rushing and when and what temperature it was when it hit.
My legs were lined with bumps. I didn’t have a jacket or change of clothes.The AC was full. Also there was tension in the air. Also, something in my head screamed.
“I should leave.”
You just got here.
“But I should leave again.”

I used my phone to call an Uber. Mind you, I hesitated. The rain had slowed and I was already wet. As I watched the app buffer, I walked back towards the door man.
“You need an umbrella to borrow?”
Meekly, I nodded.
“Or a car?”
“Just an umbrella.”
The man produced a cheap black umbrella from the stand and there was no discussion of returning it. A gaze exchanged, not amicable or stern, just a pardon of sorts. I didn’t have any cash except two dollars and wasn’t sure what was appropriate so I did nothing instead. Lingering, I canceled the Uber. Something in my head split.
“I will tip you when I get back with more money.” I pulled out the two dollars: crumpled, tried to smooth it.
“Thank you but no need. Just bring the umbrella back with you later.”
He didn’t take the money or even look at it. I was afraid I insulted him. And then several black dots appeared before my eyes like the picture was changing on a movie screen to the next scene. The way it does when film starts to burn but smaller, nearly imperceptible unless you were looking in the right direction.

I was drawn to the front porches. They reminded me of home. Mini mansions; plantation houses with great big front porches and gazebos in the back somewhere, wide and wooden and pillared. They each had those big columns supporting the roof and you could sit out there and watch people walk by and sip iced tea and holler at the street.
“Rain soon, yeah?” someone called to me.
I kept walking.
That’s a southern thing. To make note of the climate and aggressively, staking your place here by announcing your existence. This is my house, it says. I will greet you but don’t stop and don’t come in. Southern hospitality. I’ll invite you, don’t come in. Wasn’t that they were slave houses that drew me, though the haunted branches did, but the size–the space, the backyard. The  whole city was painted like a slum here too. Like Philadelphia. Things I am used to: southern drawls, chipping turquoise paint, men whispering you are fine beneath their breath as I pass them, and the crunch of beer cans under my feet every once in a while. Days like this, when it’s 101 degrees, no one was out but me but their legacies marked with butts and sometimes Busch cans. Sometimes a condom, a chewed up straw. A creaking branch that dipped like something pulled it. I loved looking down to note the city’s trash wherever I went. But I loved looking up here. I loved New Orleans for the trees. They were everywhere in every yard and every walkway and the most shaded city in the USA. Had to be; you stay outside too long in Louisiana in the middle of July and you’re gonna drop dead of heat stroke. No question. Everywhere I walked contained giant oaks, hundreds of years old, bald cypress, thriving pines, continued growth, full and touched by dozens- fingers, whimpering backs, salt lined necks. I went on a park tour here just to hear them talk about the three hundred year old trees. Solace from the conference, a couple of us snuck out on a park tour. 

They never mention chattel but the branches never stop creaking.
It was July and the occasional bright magnolia also hit me. Her pink among all the verdure. I’d be caught underneath, cupping the flowers and then plucking one, rubbing the petals between my fingers to feel the wax, to watch it all disintegrate. I didn’t mean to pick the flowers. I do it with the cherry blossoms too. I always say I’m sorry. That’s a southern thing: insincerity. I love green against black sky. That’s a southern thing. Lush yards for miles and the electricity brushing the hair on my arm before the storm starts.  It was 2:30 pm. I wanted the petrichor but I’d have to wait; that dirt sex smell after rain and the worms, how they writhed in the dirt having risen the way twigs float to the surface of a lake. I could watch them for hours in their gratitude seizure. Pluck them from the ground and rub their body between my fingers to feel the mush, to watch it all disintegrate. I’m sorry, I’d say. 

I walked through Treme towards the river to admire the houses, the different colors, all bright but leaning towards that spring theme: light blue, light pink, light yellow, light green. Reminded me of my old wooden Easter basket; white but criss-crossed with plastic interlacing pastels through the wood that my mom laid with that crinkly green polyurethane grass. She would hide all sorts of chocolates and things; little cut-out chicks and rabbits all over the house that I had to find on top of some plastic eggs filled with chocolate eggs, plus the real eggs I’d dyed myself: sloppy, leaking, my Crayola marks where I signed one for the bunny. To be in his favor. It was real gluttony. My hands were always covered in chocolate and blue dye.  I cleaned the contents of the basket out in two days and left the grass so my mom wouldn’t notice but my cat could sit in it. When Mom shooed her, she saw the hedonist child.  All the houses here were that same pastel if they weren’t white. As I got closer to the French Quarter, they grew triple in size. 

The neighborhood was silent. Abandoned. The houses looked friendlier because of their coloring and the way they stood, placid, non assuming, on their big green squares. I could see ivy creeping up the siding, tendrils of brown and green wrapping ends of gutters and giant holes forming in the fascia. The trim full of openings; a new nesting area for squirrels or birds. This is a habit of mine; not just staring at houses but observing them intently to look for marks. Amazing how some skills never leave you.  I can tell when someone is going to ruin their roof by the facade. I can tell when a window pane needs replacing. In a more discouraged time, in my most diminutive, I sold siding door to door as a job. Quite good at it too even  knowing nothing about siding from day one to day ninety one, which is I think how long I lasted. Here was my skill: I could point out where the siding was, the fascia, the soffit and the trim but I had no idea how structurally they all mattered. Mostly I smiled big when they opened the door and a windfall would catch me. I am often caught staring up at roofs when someone answers the door. It’s not that I cared then or now, it’s that I always remember being good at it even though I knew nothing about houses. A Pavlovian conditioning of reward.
Find something to talk about and find something wrong with either the fascia, the trim, the windows or the siding, Tate said during our lessons.
Lessons were the worst part. We sat in the same room Monday through Saturday. Our only day off was Sunday. You can’t bother people on Sundays. This was Chesapeake, Virginia and this was the Lord’s day.  Right before we went out in the van, we had these horrifying tests in which we had to get up in front of everyone and practice our sales pitch or answer questions about the product. This was motivation for me to succeed. I neither cared about the product nor understood it completely.  If you were successful though, you were allowed to start skipping these things and other trainings and could spend more time in the field. Due to my gross incompetence, I pledged I would memorize facts quickly, smile big and perform for Tate and everyone so I would not be corrected or reprimanded publicly, but more than that, I would get the next days. And the van rides which soothed me at times. I could sell someone anything without really understanding how roofs weather storms or how windows are related to siding and how siding will eventually come back to the roof which will affect your window. Some cycle or graphic Tate had shown us but it was like the words didn’t mean anything to me when he said it. . It was just an image of a house with four arrows pointing the same direction.
See? he looked at me.
I was new. I mimed.
You could use the extra protection for winter. This winter we are supposed to have a lot more precipitation, possibly sleet.
Oh is that so?
Yes, it’s going to be a very wet winter and you said your roof is 20 years old? It’s quite possible there’s been more damage than you realize and you need support. Look here.
I pointed at nothing. The elderly man walked out to meet me a bit and squinted. Holding his hands above his eyes to use them as a shield on this bright and sunny Friday, he looked up at the invisible crack.
See there?
Eh, not really, girl.
That’s a southern thing. Boy, girl. We mean no harm with vernacular but it cuts your back when we say it. Girl. I was used to it.
Well, it looks like a crack has already formed. Plus, I pointed out to you the condensation in your windows. I quickly gestured back to the windows. This could really rot the molding and with this crack, you may end up with the entire side full of mold. I held my hands out to emphasize how big a house was. I think I should have a rep come out and meet with you tomorrow. Are you free tomorrow? Saturday?
I said the word mold a lot. In every presentation.I said the word precipitation often too. Rain. Sleet. Snow. Humidity. That falll was about the weather for me.
I am actually. Yeah, maybe. He looked back at his window, hand on his chin.  Maybe that will work.
Great. I am going to call the office right now, I took my cell phone from my pocket, and put you in touch with the receptionist who will gather your address and number and set the time. Sound ok, sir?
That’s a southern thing. Sir, ma’am. Boy, girl. He looked towards the invisible crack.
You seem trustworthy, he paused, scratching his chin and gazing upwards as I began to dial. Sure, I guess so. He guffawed and hit my back, Way to go, girl he added like he was on the joke.
That was called a next day and it was the only appointment worth setting because the homeowner was less likely to cancel if you did it day of or next day. My entire job was to get people to commit to having more qualified men come out and speak to them about the shitty quality of their decent roof and house in an effort to get them to replace their windows, siding and trim. My entire commission was based on how many next days, two days or three days I got. Anything beyond that was a waste. I didn’t get extra money and most likely, they would cancel. Because all of the women in the van hated me, I wasn’t distracted by friendship or trying to gain friendship. That man did end up buying windows. They didn’t all. But he was really was in on the joke.
One next day, I told Tate, smiling, back at the van where we were now going to listen to whatever top 100 rap songs were out until we got back to the office.
Nice!
He high fived me and Donna and Jessica glared at me as I walked by them with my long khaki shorts, respectable blue polo and neat ponytail to sit with all the guys. Jessica had not been able to set a next day for weeks and Donna was honestly trailer trash horse shit in short spandex shorts and that’s the only way she got them sometimes. When the husband was home alone. Me, I was polite. Me, I greeted the old men with shorts near my knees. I said excuse me sir, but you have a beautiful home here and smiled. I said thank you. I dropped the word mold a lot and pretended to see things forming around the vinyl of windows.  I counted cigarettes but never smoked in the field like the others. I didn’t drink before work like the others. I didn’t sneak off during shifts. I walked door to door  confidently with five facts that I alternated and greeted everyone the same.
And how’d you get that? Jessica looked back at me and smiled.
I said it was gonna be a wet winter.
Is that what you always say? Kevin asked.
That’s what I always say, I smiled big at Kevin.
Donna and Kevin were fucking.
I also say:  excuse me, ma’am, you have a beautiful home. Also I just stepped in a fire ant hill. Can you believe that? And then I showed my teeth. Kevin clapped and laughed hard and turned his whole body to face me. I continued by putting my hand on my chest and leaning forward, Oh, no!Then sticking my hands out and waving them around.Yes, it’s true. I’m fine. A little shaken but fine.
Kevin smiled at me and shot me those finger guns. Kevin was there when it really happened, when I really stepped in the fire ant hill getting off the van one day. He was the one who told me to use the line whether it happened again or not. Kevin and I were fucking.
So you just tell them you are covered in ants and having a wet winter and they…
Tate cut her off, (Redacted) has set five next days in two weeks and neither of you two have set any so maybe you should shut up and listen to her.
Oh shit, Kevin snapped.
I turned my face to the window quickly so they wouldn’t see me beam. It’s true I was the
Lord’s favorite. Despite my conservative attire, which they made fun of every time I stepped off, I was fucking half the van too.
What I learned then was no one in that van knew shit about roofs and the best way to get what you want is to become the malleable indifference. To become the caricature of what will make them feel safest and change as it changes.  To become the most drawling, trustworthy girl they have met or to quickly roll up your shorts when you get a lone man. Donna was wrong in her approach because women don’t like women who wear shorts that only go right past their buttocks. They like women who have never shown a shoulder. They like women with slightly uneven eyebrows. You do not agitate with your Marlboro stained fingertips but the bald face save some cherry Chapstick and a quick joke and an earnest compliment. That’s how I learned how to walk through walls.  Become invisible.
I walked through Treme to the French Quarter alone, covered head to toe in sweat in my blue silk button up dress with the buttons coming undone as I walked practicing inflection, admiring the garish encasements, admiring the giant oaks teeming over with Spanish moss and desperately wanting to be taken inside of them. The respite of shade. The complacency. Being forced still in a swelter of humid breeze. The yawn of me settling back against the bark, looking up, touching moss with my fingers, seeing the sun peek through the branches. When the first rumble of thunder rolled in, I was still one mile from my destination and slower than before, caught gazing upward at someone’s fascia standing at the edge of some stranger’s front yard.

“Will I always be like this?” I said out loud, feeling the first drops of rain hit.

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