I have begun to unlearn the shames of being white, removed from my ancestry, orphaned alongside my family. I am learning pride for Borinquén, whom nobody owns. Podemos volver, como sea que vayamos.

“Boricua En La Luna” Juan Antonio Corretjer

“Song for Alicia” Max García Conover and Haley Henderickx

Anymore, no one knows how apostrophes work. That is fine. As a high school teacher, I’ve got important battles to overcome. None—not a one!—of them is actual grammar.

Missing was mysterious, maybe a little cool, dead is dead. Grief is selfish the way loving is futile; compelling, crucial, insufficient.

I forego a morning of work to play outside. Bret, frequent hitchhiker, moved the dead off the road with reverence and as an assist to scavengers. He would borrow something—a feather, quill, claw—as tribute. He could identify a plant’s family if not its specific name, and was my first teacher of Leave No Trace. He believed in me without condition, and wouldn’t let me return the favor. Bret lived quietly, bordering on ascetic, never taking more than he needed, punishing himself for things he wouldn’t discuss further than insisting weren’t from wartime. He was a gentleman and a joker who’d run away when he felt vulnerable and return to me loving. Oh, how we’d laugh, at and with each other, giggling, dancing, wrestling, writhing. Playing always outside, animals more than anything. Bret was childlike, honorable, wounded, passionate, and doomed. He was a dream come true. Now a body found in Florida, shattered hope in my hands, and a tattoo on my side that he messed up twice. I will love and miss Bret—for whom “two t’s is greedy”—forever.

Deets and I are out after dark, rustling in the dry grasses and sniffing out bugs. before we come across an animal that piques Deets’ curiosity, she pauses with a deeply low, questioningly sweet moan. I use my headlamp to do a quick scan and come up empty. we crunch in an amble around our backyard. I’ve not entirely let my guard down when Deets puts on what I like to call her “friend face”. her manner when approaching a fellow creature with wonder rather than hunger is in her face, but her body does all of the talking. thinking it could be her “Friendcat” I let Deets creep ahead as I again click on the headlamp. now I’m confused because my cat has crept close enough to startle this thing given that I cannot find it even with a high-beam. it’s just beyond the deep grass Deets has already started to sneak into. Friendcat has a fluffy tail but I know it to be dark; I am seeing fluffy white swishing. upon next recognizing black my whole body reacts in understanding: we are—Deets mere inches, and I only feet—looking at a skunk. I gave Deets a sharp hiss to get out followed by a jolt of a tug on her leash. she gracefully high-tailed it as I tried not to move too sudden. as soon as we’d reached safety I remembered the day maybe a week ago when the outside stunk so bad I thought it would stick to my clothes. I burned so much incense that day. anywayyy new friend! rack em up.

Deets got to go off leash today. She used her freedom to terrorize our animal neighbors. In this field over the hill I mistook the vast array of holes and tunnels for a rabbit warren. It is a prairie dog town. In the past visits to prairie dog towns I have heard some impressive squeaks. I’m pretty sure their adorable call is the reasoning behind the nickname whistle pigs. I have heard no such cute whistles among our neighbors in prairie dog town. These dirt-loving little dudes, when bothered, sound a true, klaxon. Like the time we were in Indonesia and the cicadas blared suddenly, loudly, and omnipresently; all so much so that I thought an apocalypse alarm was going off. Cicadas. I don’t really mind Deets startling some prairie dogs. She’s wearing bells, they have deep tunnels, there should be no harm. She sticks her front half in these holes and thinks real hard. I thought the prairie dog noise was a bird at first. I looked toward Deets halfway deep and realized the screech I heard more softly was doing its work to get that cat gone. As she removed herself entirely, the muffled yet intense siren ceased. I happened to be looking in the right direction when 10 seconds later a slinky brown rodent popped out of the earth 50 feet away, stood roughly a foot tall on hind legs, and rang its mighty klaxon with full force. Oh, these guys are good. I hooked Deets back on the leash, and directly found our way to leaving prairie dog town.

this guy hitched a ride on my bag today. my first tarantula of migration season! the cutest best spider.

These are the books I’m “in the middle of” this fiery August, full of potential. I’m in the middle of negotiating radical system shifts, facing down old shame, delighting in inspiration, and inviting others to lean into the turning alongside me. Anybody else feeling it?

Last night we saw a bear. Tonight we’re out walking with all the necessary precautions. 23 hours and 15 minutes later I remain unable to take my eyes from the bear’s path. Heightened vigilance, whether hope or fear driven I cannot say now. I also cannot listen as hard as I would like to because I have to make noise as I walk. I have bear spray in my back pocket with the safety off, and I expect never to use it.

Last night an adult black bear chose to walk past me and Deets. I saw it too late for me to make myself big and loud without startling. Instead, I stood still and chill, or frozen. Deets too, flattened herself and waited. Tonight any unknown sound startles. Despite my piqued nerves and hopes, I truly do not expect to see that bear again, much less entangle with it. Remarkably, I have faith.

Had it stood up, that grown-ass bear would have been several inches taller than me. I heard terrific foot-falls thumping the arid ground as it’s lumbering body parted dessicate grasses like so many stiff curtains opening to admit an actual bear’s potential. Toward foot falls that I knew immediately could not be deer, I turned thinking of elk, and was stunned by that glorious bear, already within 30 feet at my noticing. It’s healthy, brown coat shone deep and lustrous in the bright sunset, face unassuming somehow, placid with neutrality even as its holy head lifted to take me in. Less than 15 feet away now, me: eyes lowered, awestruck, shaking in supplication, thinking mightily that I am no threat, picturing the bear walking away. (Deets: flat and hidden from view, probably picturing the same thing but with her own hope of friendship.) A perfect black bear in whose marginally paused gait and steady departure I felt the bestowal of blessing as fresh oxygen. The holy terror of proximity, the holy reward of being ignored. New breath, new hope. “Tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of [their] life.” Actually awesome. I trust that I will never again see that newly beloved bear; it didn’t deign to look back. How poignant that I already feel sorrow at not further witnessing such beauty. Bear-eft, even.

An ongoing study, most recent first.

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They both have short cropped gray-white hair with a fluff in the front and the soft, sturdy body of a welcoming young grandmother. Neither looks older than their early sixties which gives the old lady look a premature quality, like a fashion choice. Each is clad in loose, summery garb, intensely patterned atop, solid light shades below, merrily debating who will drive today given how each slept. They are strangers to me and probably everyone else in the room, gathering their continental breakfasts greeting every new face as an old friend. “How are you doing this morning?“ One or the other of the pair asks each person they encounter, politely waiting for an answer and cooing an appropriately kind response. Thank goodness there are fewer than ten of us. I do believe women like this are a dying breed, appropriately, and I love them all the more intensely for it. These two who could easily be sisters, with the possibility of twin-hood not far off, bring a Southern-flavored zest to our hotel breakfast. Of course I secretly want them to be lovers grown together a lifetime into an indecipherable independence; I satisfy myself that the gaiety is potent. A dog on a leash arrives, exciting both gals into a barrage of cutesy talk and questions. It turns out this flopsy blond, very polite terrier has been rescued. As the story unfolds our listeners become simply delighted to know how good the dog has it now! Only then do I notice that this particular breakfast is missing an incorrigible TV blaring the news; our entertainment so much more potent. When the human holding the leash says the dog’s name I don’t catch it, but I’ve only to wait the breath it takes for these two happy voices to exclaim delightedly, and together: “Oh, Franklin!”

You were never with me. Not all of you. In your absence I added pieces: jokes from a friend, a voice from late-night interviews, a laugh from someone else’s mouth. I grafted our fronds of fondness into forests in the way only a lonely heart is able. Mulching with memory and tilling over time I nurtured the brief hours of us into full bloom, resounding bright with the tenderness in which you held me, perfumed with playfulness. I wanted to know you better than this. I memorized our dancing, public and unnecessary when a parked car played Tom Petty. Calm and quiet along with Kevin Morby. Sensuous and volatile our naked bodies in the noisy forests, on the raw sea’s rocky shores. Our sweet fervent lovemaking holding for me prayer, an understanding never black or white, of ceaseless changing, temporary passion, weak love. I created high contrast to soothe the aches of your departure. Every time. Long gone to me now you’ve disappeared again. Desperate, your sister contacts me once more, hopeful still that I could know anything of your whereabouts. I never did, not even when I had been with you. In my heart you are a collage of perfect moments and imperfect reasoning: here you live with me in joyful love. In my waking life even the bleak reality of you beats the prospects, and so I allow myself the dream of you, not you, but you. Stay missing.

10:30 Ithaca

9:30PM Bath

Deets is so busy running around Grandy’s house that I have no more pics. She’s talking to anyone who will listen and cleaning cobwebs from who knows where by using her cute stupid face. The pitter patter of her paws all over the place is an absolute delight. Also my mama fed me as soon as I got home—what’s better.

¡Lo hicimos! El gran viaje grande no es completa pero ahora nos quedamos un mes en Maine.

big sigh of relief

in 2017, following a trip through Southeast Asia I was in my hometown again. it was the best part of the year and the best event to celebrate: The Great Blue Heron Music Festival on July 4th weekend. I leaned back in a campsite chair by the fire and marveled at the comparatively small bunches of leaves throughout the layered and sundry greens of temperate forest canopy. I had been in the tropics for months amidst towering jungle trees with leaves the size of my own trunk (torso, not rear). under similarly reaching stalks in an equally dense forest I was newly struck by the quality of daylight through translucent and quivering swatches of greens. recently I have been living in the high desert among junipers and scrub oak and prey animals. I haven’t been to my hometown in years, much less again at a glorious summer high. my current home in aridity has trees I can climb and lots of rocks. the greens of my youth are viciously vibrant, as with the blues; I have genuinely had to readjust. the trees with the little leaves these days loom like monsters so impressively tall. Deets is in joyful, playful confusion. she spent much of today watching chipmunks, and tonight we’ll sleep in a tent. throughout this trip I have been repeatedly overcome by awe at Deets’ adaptability, amid car rides, new spaces, strange sounds and new faces, fresh smells and wet grasses, trees with unclimbable trunks and no tops… what can’t this kitty do?!?

At one point I came out of the house to see my dad standing at the edge of the deck dangling a string over the side. and then Deets’ fat fluffy little paw swiped from her hideout.

8:00 Longansport, IN

-> 4:10PM Southern Tier Brewing Company, NY

-> 8:30PM Bemus Point (my hometown), NY

425 miles

8:40 Kingdom City

-> 10:45 Gateway Arch

-> 5:15PM EDT Indiana Beach

-> 7:46 Logansport, Indiana

421 miles

Today we crossed into the final timezone—Eastern, baybee! Deets and I were hoping to get a caricature done of us on the Indiana Beach boardwalk, but it was not that kind of beach, or boardwalk. That little amusement park seemed pretty sweet regardless, and the detour offered welcome roadside respite.

I’m not usually one for man-made feats, but Gateway Arch was very impressive, actually. It does not hurt that St. Louis is an easy city to navigate, and has several sweet bridges over that tremendous Missouri River.

Deets appreciates every moment around grass and even climbed a cemetery tree today. She rests in the car but does not sleep, and is currently totally passed out on our king-sized bed. Me next.

8:00 Limon

-> 10:00 Idalia

-> 8:30PM Central Time: Kingdom City, Missouri

713 miles

11.5 hours on the road is the longest I’ve ever done as sole driver. Idalia was a bit out of the way, for a sweet and secret reason. We saw the mayor crossing the main drag, pictured above. Deets and I managed to get in some roadside walks before we left the rural wilderness, and gratefully. Then from the road we saw buffalo! Kansas was mostly windmills and Jesus. Spring looks real good on Missouri and the river is an absolute stunner. If there’s a line for the rest stop bathroom, you can pee in the pet area. Somewhere today we crossed into central time. Expressways are tough. Sleeping will be easy.

423 miles

7:40 Dolores -> 8:50 Bayfield -> 6PM Limon, Colorado

This timeframe included a stop in Bayfield to have some breakfast with a friend and find out the shop baker was from the same place in Maine that she is from!

Other notable moments include: crossing the Rockies in a sudden downpour and wild pronghorn. These things never get old.

hop hop gallup gallup trot trot hop gallup trot walk slow to still. still take it all in gather walk trot all together stop. survey ears pricking graze look around (chat?) graze congregate pace stand. again.

occasionally: investigate a smaller creature with a boop of the snoot.

I like to bring a beverage when Deets and I go on longer walks. sometimes I have to put that beverage down, as you can imagine. one time, so far, I left a mug in the woods. this is a high desert woods, which is to say everything is low to the ground and brushy and there’s a lot of open dirt space as well. I thought this particularly bright and pale blue mug stood out beautifully. of course the day I lost it, I got home with Deets and didn’t notice any lack of mug. I also didn’t notice the next day, and continued not to notice until several days later when my shelf of very few mugs was looking a little empty. I had four mugs total at that time so this missing mug became a big deal. I guess not enough of a deal for me to notice sooner, but it definitely mattered when it did. I have this bonus problem of pathological guilt when I lose things that people have given to me; it’s a slippery existential slope that appears in my psyche to really drive home the fact that I have lost a thing and am a loser. if I’m not careful I get to ride a whole shame spiral around this object, potentially even for the rest of my life. so mostly I try very hard not to lose things that were gifts from loved ones. of course this mug was a gift from a loved one. of all the mugs I could’ve lost! I needed to reach for a positive spin on this immediately upon realizing it—I recognize the danger. so the next time I went to a thrift store, I bought a new mug. I said to myself, and I thought to myself, and I very consciously willed this: “because I have now replaced this mug I will find the lost gift next time we are in the woods.” the day after the purchase of my cute new-to-me mug, springtime comes in full force. our high desert goes through a weird several days of rain and the ground of this forest is just atrocious mud. our entire backyard really is sticky, icky mud. it’s the kind of mud that once you have one piece of it on your shoe, you take another step and have a platform. even Deets gets fussy when she steps her paws in it, shaking them off and gnawing until the dirt is gone from between her little toe beans. obviously we’re not going to the woods these several springtime days, and I avoid using my new mug during this time; it is a placeholder. I still feel a little strange calling this backyard area of ours a woods or forest because I grew up on the East Coast where everything is super wet and growing all the time. even the mud is too wet to stick in that verdant fecundity, a direct contrast to my current arid habitat where in the days of rain everything grew suddenly and exponentially: green, vibrant little shoots coming up all over the place, tiny flowers carpeting the dirt, dry tree branches filling with buds, and mobs of deer coming to feast on all the newborn growth. me and Deets, we wait. we wait for the mud to not be sticky icky anymore. the deer are curious about Deets, relegated to the gravel driveway with her fuzzy little feet. we need things to be just dry enough to allow us to hike up that hill to our little forest. Deets has plans. the wetness of the week has led to a seeming frenzy of lizard and bug action, and Deets can’t sit still about it.  she’s trying to chase every moving thing immediately but regrets every step she takes while in the dirt that isn’t dried. evenings pass where we wander the driveway, searching the little ditches for fun. the deer greet Deets as they pass through on their grazings. days go by this way, often featuring late afternoon storms. one day without rain is not enough to harden the sticky, but eventually the days of dry arrive. (not that this is ideal overall—ideally it would rain here for long enough to replenish the rivers and make up for the lack of snowfall. that’s just not this story.) the weather is perfect and Deets is beside herself with impatience. she tugs at her lead and talks about hunting constantly. on the next morning I don’t have work, she and I are going straight to the woods first thing. by then we are both so excited. taking this cat out off-leash in our backyard has become a favorite exercise for me, and for her part Deets gets to hunting immediately. I notice that there’s one bird actually following her around, a phenomenon I’ve not seen before. deer friends are one thing but what is this bird up to, I wonder. it’s a towhee and I don’t know it’s opinion of Deets but there is unmistakable interest. I realize that she does get yelled at by towhees kind of frequently as she roots in the underbrush; towhees have this raspy yawp with a descending note that sounds completely approbative. when we get yelled at like that, I take notice immediately and usually wonder where the nest is. Deets did manage to catch a towhee once, and like a perfect murderous angel she brought that bird home for the torture she’d planned, and like a parent with loving boundaries I rescued that bird easily. this towhee following us silently now had me wondering if the rescued bird maybe healed planning vengeance, the first stage of which would be stalking Deets on her wanders. I’m composing the whole story for myself as we begin our journey into the trees that are mostly giant bushes with a smattering of glorious, eminently climbable juniper. I’ve got a mug (stolen from a past residence) of coffee. it’s a beautiful Sunday morning with a chill still in the air as the sun shines warm in a spring so true: cool air, warm sun, happy cat, settled heart. we’re having a great time in the ominous shadow of this strangely silent towhee. I’m particularly enjoying all of the other bird sounds. it’s high spring in the high desert and I’ve got my phone app out listening to chirps, songs, squawks, trills. one especially awesome aspect of this ecosystem is that because the growth is low to the ground, the expanse of sky and open country is truly fantastic. you can see and hear birds because light and sound really travel over these distances. here in my hearing are the moans of collared doves, the chipper songs of meadowlarks, vesper sparrows, house finches. I glimpse a little bushtit hopping through the low brush; kingbird and bluebird perched up at the top, brilliantly yellow and blue in the sun, respectively. looking higher I spy magpies aloft, along with crows and vultures, maybe a hawk a little farther off. all of this, in my backyard! this cute little wooded area is essentially private from humans and shared by every other creature from far and wide. I apologize to the lizards, caught in quick succession; I will light a candle for them later. Deets is throwing another one around. in a familiar and ongoing internal monologue, I reconcile my relief that she’s not chasing birds or bunnies. I often run a timer to see how long we can walk because I get really excited when I suddenly realize we’ve been walking for like 45 minutes and I thought it was only 20, or alternatively, how long have we been walking and it’s only been five minutes! I like when I’m enjoying myself enough to lose track of time. that’s my favorite—who doesn’t love those experiences? so Deets and I have been walking for a while and the timer is approaching an hour already. I’m sitting down to drink some water and bask in the adventure, just letting the whole scene sink in, when suddenly I notice! bright and pale blue. there it is, my mug—just where I left it, and precisely when I knew it would be found.

update: less than a week after this post I set the mug down on the patio shelf and it became the first thing Deets has ever broken.

in the muddy outside world Deets could not find a place to dookie. she was whining all about it, but I didn’t know how to help. an indoor cat box just doesn’t do it for this kitten. I followed her around outside and enjoyed the walk while she complained. there’s simply nowhere to dig! after a half hour, Deets finally found a dry spot underneath a copse of stalks of tree like a giant bush. these not-quite tree trunks in a bunch set a foot-ish apart from each other sometimes more and each of them has 1 million little not-branches coming off of it. a soda can circumference covered in little twiggy sticks, all of it dry and brittle. Deets does her dookie and covers the hole then immediately, before I can react at all, scampers up one of those lame trunks, leash catching all the way up behind her like reverse plinko. the leash is immediately enmeshed in all these little twigs, the fated tangle behind and above Deets so when she finally gets stuck, she just dangles there. at the top of the tree. more than ten feet up. no one is happy about this.

obviously I immediately start trying to get to her. every attempt I make is an immediate failure, forcing me to stop myself. the sticks and twigs everywhere make even getting to Deets’ chosen trunk tricky. my first workable thought is to bend the whole thing toward me using my weight to bring it down. I try that and get pretty close but not quite, now in danger of catapulting Deets elsewhere, if only she wasn’t caught. either way she’s super uncomfortable now, scrabbling against whatever little holds she hasn’t broken off yet. there’s the additional problem that Deets does not have her tag nor any light attached to her harness and it’s dark, so while unhooking her leash would be ideal for her comfort, not so much for her safety or my peace of mind. now I have to figure out a way to get up to her and after considering going back for a knife to cut my favorite leash, I start to recognize that if all these overgrown bush stalks are bendy and they’re all real close together, I can use them to do a shimmy. this is going to suck. breaking every available stick with every part of my body, I bust through toward Deets and begin bracing myself on the trees around her. this activity is so much louder than I’d like, and I’m sure my clothes will be ruined. I start against one trunk with my right foot and when I’m finally braced, I’m leaning most of my weight onto my right leg with my left planted almost directly behind me, knee bent to at a right angle. now all my weight is pushing against these two stalks of tree and, again breaking stick after dry stick, I start to shimmy, and to pull myself by hand up Deets’ tree. slow and unsteady, I manage to scramble a few feet off the ground where I can reach my kitten. so excited she can’t wait, Deets jumps into my free hand and onto my shoulder, gaining not quite enough purchase so that I have to use that hand to hold her. she can’t stay by herself because of the leash.

the leash is still tangled and I still can’t reach high enough to fix that. I need my free hand to climb. Deets needs that hand to hold her. all the while my feet are in my favorite hiking shoes, slowly crushing more twigs as the trees resist my plan. I resettle my weight, bracing. this is trickier than I’d hoped. now it’s about not panicking: I’m realizing that if I go down, I’ll hit so many different sticks. it will be a very slow descent and mostly just hurt my clothes and maybe my hands and face. I am now aware that it’s possible I wouldn’t be injured at all. okay. reset, look around, shimmy as I explain to the barely-supported cat that I’ve gotta use my hand. I tug as much slack as I can from the intertwisted leash and kinda just.. let Deets go.

this brave little creature! not inelegantly, she tumbles from my shoulder and lands on my left calf, flexed and propped against the tree. she tries hanging on there desperately, not using claws and thereby struggling mightily for a hold. I am bracing for the sharp puncture of little talons, even as I work toward untangling the leash. Deets clings to my leg just a few feet above the ground while I struggle just below the catch point of the leash. this cat doesn’t cry or make any noise or use her nails, not once. I manage to gather more slack and finally drop Deets to the ground, easily, where she waits, not impatiently, recovering. keeping myself propped up there starts to get pretty intense. I am fatigued enough to be shaking as I attempt to change positions but ultimately only shift my weight. fumbling now more hastily I wrest the leash free just as my right leg starts to cramp. adjusted finally, I announce aloud, “Good job, now get to the ground.” the chorus of snapping sticks that accompanies my descent is an angelic symphony.

today, as I was watching, Deets spied a moth. she sprung directly into the air without even crouching first, fully spread above the ground with arms and legs akimbo. gravity took her down to land beautifully, barely touching four paws to the dirt before she did it again. again! without any seeming preparation Deets flew spread eagle to this moth and clapped at it. again landing on all fours, then magnificently launching into the air without any seeming propellant. twirling as she reached for the moth a third time. I saw her whole belly. I saw her whole back. I was reminded of having a pet sugar glider almost 20 years ago. he also leapt, limbs wide, through the air. Deets reminded me of a commercial for happy cats, bouncy and playful. the moth got away, this time.

Deets is growing up!

The US is a bully and I for one am deeply impressed by Canada’s ability to deliver a swift retributive roundhouse right to our economy. I am very scared that they will take Shoresy away though.

Little lambs in the field with their mamas—c’mon spring! So white and teensy, with ears like baby Yoda.

Well before the lambs as I take the slow way home, I cruise by the pasture of two miniature horses and their white goose pal. All three can almost always be spotted grazing together. In fact, I’ve never seen one without the other two.

I can’t imagine even remotely caring for anyone who: drives a purposely loud vehicle, hates cats, or does dental work for a living. Someone else will love them, I hope.

Aside from when I call her, the only noise that Deets will run toward turns out to be a hare screaming. Also she is not out here catching mice, but voles (spring body count just shy of double-digits). Last Deets fact: the thing she hates most about traveling, so far, is having to dookie in the litter box. She will deign to do it, registering her protest by refusing to bury her turds. What a rebel.

Turns out my town is simply not the place for outgoing and creative peers. This week I discovered that they still exist, single and ready to mingle! Elsewhere.

Is $20 cheap for a t-shirt? Why are all my podcasters claiming it is. Why isn’t thrifting gaining stronger social approval in this dying climate?

I’m an excellent cook. The end.

in the “downtown” of this rural place I drove past a solitary, solemn, white guy in a cowboy hat and jeans, looking very local, standing on the sidewalk next to a little cardboard sign that said, “Protect Veterans and Federal Workers” and waving a giant American flag, honor-guard-style. the flag was mounted upside down.

Deets and I walked for over an hour yesterday morning and could easily have gone longer. Off leash, she climbed trees, pulled their bark with her tiny maw, chased bugs, climbed again, found herself out on limbs from which I might hear her plaintive meow and arrive to wait to be her step ladder. The sun was warm and we sometimes still stood firmly atop the shining snowpack, rather than sinking right in. Unfortunately, I’d made the terrible choice of wearing my cozy UGGs which, despite the crusty airy lightness of the snow, soaked through quite thoroughly. When we got home, I thawed my feet while Deets napped. I felt drowsy but barely dozed. I had a procedure in the early afternoon of which I’d been afraid for over a decade by then. Thankfully I had made the appointment the day prior, which left very little time for my nerves to find purchase. How lovely to finally read “Brokeback Mountain”afterwards! To amble and fumble in that cozy bookstore; maybe doze some more. That particular unconsciousness was chemically enhanced, for between my home rest and medical procedure, I had ingested 2 mg of clonazepam. These pills I had procured over a counter in Mexico after a road trip two autumns ago. Today I planned to constructively volunteer that I’d taken a downer “under the advice of [my current GP]”. Nobody asked. I’d walked the cat, vaguely dozed, taken my self-prescription along with the doctor recommended 800mg of ibuprofen, then procured en route a variety of comfort foods that ultimately, and to the stunning obliteration of long-held fears, became nonessential. I arrived at the doctor’s office in a hazy dream state that I’m sure came off as chill—they still did the thing didn’t they. With my stockinged feet in the stirrups I was stoic, almost relaxed, not even tempted to scream or cry. Then clothed again. I found myself sat in a cozy chair surrounded by books bathed in the haze of sunlight specific and unique to libraries and stores precisely like this one, what fortune. In that speckled, bright air I read, dreaming of Heath Ledger, marveling at Annie Proulx, basking in the paper-perfumed warmth, indulging in tracing a long-cherished film finally back to its provenance. The pictures dancing in my dozy mind were only slightly familiar. With heavy eyes I crossed the decades over which this story had accompanied me, there and back again. At the end, rousing myself I reshelved dear Proulx. It appeared somehow and I purchased, for a single dollar, Fear of Flying. In the wake of last weeks’ completion of All Fours, Jong’s reputation felt apt and bold. I was celebrating, reveling, moving forward in the success and burden that is my beloved body. I craved sushi. That I would be a single diner at the best restaurant in town on a Friday night only served to swell the rashness—trashiness?—of my having a classic, notorious, and very visibly titled book as my date. The hard-working, long-lasting benzos only further intoxicated my relief at having overcome PTSD from the initial procedure enough to not only sign up for this one but to have actually gone through with it! I did not realize what an astute observer might notice until the first dish—a silky gyoza barely crisp at the pinched edges paired with a sauce for which I could’ve found many more uses—had filled my mouth and belly with pleasure that expanded right up to and toed the social indiscretion that is licking one’s plate.

fiery, a glint of gold appeared streaking in my peripheral vision. my eyes followed to catch sparking flares in the wake of a genuine fireball: deep dark at its core almost hollow, haloed by red that burned orange, into ferocious yellow. my head finally caught up with my eyes and there was my voice in awe, cooing as the whole combustion faded into nighttime sky. bright white stars came back into focus, blanketing a deep blue.