tomorrow.

the boy huffed steam through crusted nostrils as he forged his path in waffle prints across the sand. “sand,” for lack of a better word. sand is what beaches are made of, infinity specks of powder-ground rocks, shells, bones. the coarse mixture of tiny pebbles in this small park was not the color of sand, but the slate black of magnetite swirls in wind-beaten dunes. this imported terrain shifted underfoot with a satisfying crunch. it’s darkness complemented the chipped blue paint of the swingset.

stepping out of the park bounds and onto half-dead grass, he plunged his fists into pockets, bored through the cold with his face down, hood up, eyes on the untied laces of his right sneaker. shoelaces, something to minister to, but not right now. now is time to walk. a car horn blared in the distance, then again, and again. the sound echoed lightly off of the trees at his back but was mostly lost among the wilted leaves of mid-october. the faintest tap was audible, recurring every five to twenty seconds in no apparent rhythm. was someone chopping wood or playing croquet? he stepped off of the grass and over the bullnose of the curb. he crossed the street swiftly. he wove between houses, down driveways, over fences, and through patches of trees left in tact by builders in order to evince a sense of naturalism and privacy in the minds of the not-quite-suburban home owners. tomorrow, he will run away.

hotel.

i am sitting in michael’s white sedan. we peer through the windshield, through thin veil of ivy woven into the diamond net of the fence at the tall radiant building, the hotel. i am infatuated with it, and i am going to it. are you sure you want to go? michael asks me. i do not answer, but the answer is absolutely yes.

something important has drawn me back to this hotel. it’s closing or disappearing or dying somehow, or maybe i just couldn’t stay away. i couldn’t stay away, so i had to return. some energy. something inexplicable. something magnetic. something is here. now i am inside. there are people scattered throughout the lobby, which is expansive and bright. there is a staircase with white banisters and white balusters, and courtney is at the foot of it. i go to her. i know that she is here for the same reason i am. i go to her.

- did you go upstairs? did you go inside? are you okay?

she shakes her head no. she has a glimmer of distress in her eyes, but she is calm. she shakes her head again. i’m better now. i’m okay. she takes a deep breath. we take a deep breath.

- i’m going up, i say.

the concierge of the hotel takes me up to the top floor, leads me to a door. this is why i am here. this is why i am here again. i am here because of this room. i have been drawn here by something, by someone, by something. the apprehension and anticipation i feel is great, surging inside me. this is a room that i stayed in once, i think, i’ve been here before, i feel, something is in this room, i know, there is something in this room. the walls of the hallway are the creamy beige, golden sconces cast ethereal light, or maybe my own eyes are distorting the light into the haze i see. his hand in its white glove, at the end of his arm in its black tuxedo sleeve, reaches, grasps the golden doorknob, twists. he pushes the door, and it opens into a room that matches the hallway — cream and gold. there is dust in the air, swirling in the sunlight coming in through the window on the left wall of the room. there is a four post bed, with white covers neatly made, across the room. there is a bureau with large a mirror to the left of the door. they do not let people stay in this room anymore.

i take a few steps inside, inhale the dusty air. i turn to my left to face the window. it is a large dormer. the curtains are tied back. there is a bench with cushions built into the wall beneath the window, and there are objects on the floor in front of the bench. before i can identify any of them, my mind empties, my vision tunnels, my body feels buoyant, i lose my breath. the concierge is standing next to me, watching. i blink, rock slightly, mouth open.

- there she is… i… in the…

i gasp. the concierge’s eyes are wide, but not surprised. i pace forward, sink to my knees in front of the bench. there is a brush on the floor, and i pick it up and study it with my hands. there is a cigarbox, ornately decorated with yellow, gold, red, green, black. i put the brush down and pick up the box, gently pry its top open with the tips of my fingers. inside it there is a barbie-style doll with black hair, no clothes. i pick her up, hold her in my left hand. there is a folded scrap of paper on the bottom of the box. i place the box on the ground and take the piece of paper between the pointer finger and thumb of my right hand. i put the doll down too, and then i unfold the paper. raped with a weapon, it says. i am scared. i put the paper back in the box, but i can still see the words. i put the doll back in the box, and i close it. i am tense, empty of myself. i shake my head and stand, take a step or two back. i look out the window. i can see down into a grass courtyard. i know that there is not a grass courtyard outside. i see a young girl in a white dress walking in a circle around a fountain. she has long black hair and a white ribbon tying it back. i turn and walk back towards the door. the concierge is no longer in the room. i think he is waiting outside. i hear someone in the hall, and then courtney appears in the doorway.

we sit on the bed, somewhat speechless, until i try to explain what happened, but i can’t get the words out exactly how i want them. she nods, sitting cross-legged on the white duvet. she asks me, do you know she looks like?

- yes. she’s a little girl with dark black hair, very pale skin…

i think that i should show her the doll. the doll had dark black hair. i retrieve the box, and open it. i take out the doll and the piece of paper.

- see!

the writing on the paper has changed though. now it says, i am reborn.

i don’t know how to explain this. i look urgently at courtney, then back at the paper. i replace all of its contents and get up off of the bed, leaving the box where i sat. let’s go, i say, and courtney gets up and walks ahead of me, out the door, down the hallway to the stairs. we are on the top floor of the hotel, and the stairs wind down. six steps down, turn left, six steps down, turn left… as we spiral down, landing by landing, we go get faster and faster, almost out of control. i am ecstatic, i am flying down and down and down. we finally reach the bottom floor, the lobby, and we stop ourselves. i am out of breath and dizzy, very dizzy. i am dizzy and the empty feeling has not gone away. i rock back and forth, i don’t think i can stand. courtney looks at me and shakes her head. i guess we went too fast. i collapse down to my knees, breathing heavy and looking all around me. the lights on the ceiling trail. the concierge rushes over to help me up. he grabs me by my upper arm, pulls me up.

i stumble away, wander through the people in the lobby. there are far more people in the lobby now than there were when i was here before. there are people everywhere, in business attire. i brace myself on a table. i begin to panic. i think that i am not okay. i have a feeling that i am not going to be okay, that i am going mad, that i am never going to be the same. i say outloud…

- i’m going insane. i need to go to the hospital. i need to be committed. i–

i said that louder than i thought i did. people are looking at me. a thin, middleaged woman with brown hair, dressed in a navy blue sportcoat, rushes over to me.

- help me. i am not okay. i need to be committed.

she is a social worker or something like that. she puts one hand on my chest and one hand on my back and tells me that i’m going to be alright, and i shake my head no. she is works for the hospital, she says, she is going to take me there. she reaches into her purse, pulls out handcuffs and puts them on my wrists in front of me. almost instantly i calm down. i feel better. i feel secure. i am bound, i am controlled. i breathe deeply and intensely, trying to further calm myself, trying to stop my head from spinning. i can stand by myself though. that is good. i feel better. i smile. i tell her that i need to go to the bathroom and that i will be right back. she says okay, and i walk away from the crowd, towards the bathrooms.

i go inside. there are two stall and one urinal. i hate urinals. i go to the nearest stall, because the door is ajar, and i pull it open and go in. i don’t bother to close the door behind me. i struggle with my handcuffs, manage to get my fly down and pull out my penis before i begin to urinate heavily. urine splashes off of the toilet seat. i flex my lower abdominal muscles to stop the slow, i try to aim, i release. it is impossible to do this with handcuffs, and i am completely embarrassed. urine splashes on the floor and walls of the stall, but at least i manage to keep from urinating directly onto either. i finish finally, and struggle again with my fly. i fasten my pants acceptably and exit the bathroom. i don’t even try to wash my hands, what a joke that would be.

i hurry back out to the lobby to find the woman. it has cleared out considerable. i scan the faces, searching for the navy blue sport coat and brown hair. i don’t see her. did she leave me? i begin to panic slightly, but them i locate her on the other side of the lobby, waiting by the concierge’s desk with keys in hand. i run over, and stop in front of her. are you still coming back to the hospital with me? she asks. i nod, and she smiles. we walk out the automatic sliding glass doors, into the parking lot. the parking lot is even more vast than the lobby. we walk through the grid of vehicles. i see courtney, and i smile at her. she gives me a small solemn grin, and waves. we reach the van, which is shiny and navy blue like the woman’s sport coat. she pulls open the large sliding side door, and i climb inside.

there are butterfly wings in my instant mashed potatoes.

the spanish girl stands there with the wind blowing. her hair flails, and the little red flowers on the navy blue background fabric jump and quiver. we look at each other, her face glows golden against the desert background. she’s holding a suitcase, wearing low heels, waiting for something to take her away. a tear falls down one of our cheeks. her face looks dry and calm. her eyes inquire, and her mouth follows.

- ¿cómo sabes que me amas?

how do you know that you love me? i don’t (know what to say). i kiss her thin lips and hug her and smile. i start to cry as i turn and walk away, down the dusty path and up the dry desert hill.

—

i come into the living room through the kitchen, stand in the doorway. the floor is wood painted shiny black; it feels cool and smooth on my feet. the walls are darkish teal, and two sconces over the black couch splash subdued white light across the wide facing wall. this is where casey lives. the layout of this place is similar to his oakland house, but this place is much bigger.

there is a woman sitting on the couch with a laptop on the table in front of her. she is thin and has longish wavy brown-blond hair. the computer screen casts purple-blue tinged light onto her dark clothing. who is she?

casey comes into the room and she addresses him. he looks like the night we went to ghana for dinner, but without the hat. he smirks at her, she refocuses on the screen, he heads toward the mini bar, which is situated in the middle of the wall to the right of the couch. he is already drunk. i can perceive nothing about this situation, which makes me uneasy. casey. i rush across the room to his side, but it’s like i’m not there. he pours. casey, casey what’s wrong? he turns his head.

- you know i hate that.

i have backed away and collapsed into the armchair behind me. i didn’t — i– don’t understand. i’m sorry. i– i just wanted to talk to you. he turns to face me, drink in hand, haze in eyes, and i feel empty.

- oh, you just wanted to talk? fine! let’s talk then.

my eyes are down, my breath is heavy. i don’t know what’s going on, and that is the worst part of all of this. i shake my head “no”, and casey leaves or disappears, i don’t know. i keep looking down, looking at my feet, legs curled up close to me, heels perched on the edge of the chair, until my head is silent, and then i look up. the woman is still sitting on the couch, laptop shining open on the table in front of her. from where i am now, i can see her left profile. i uncurl and stand. my hand trails across the surface of the mini bar as i walk to the center of the room. the woman speaks to me, but does not introduce herself. i don’t understand what she is saying, but she is patronizing, speaking to me like i’m no one. who is she? i don’t understand what she is saying, or maybe i do, but refuse to remember it. i don’t like her, but she’s not really being mean to me, so what can i do? where i can i go?

i look at the front door, see the night outside through the windows. i guess i should leave. i don’t know what’s going on, so i guess i should leave.

i walk to the front door, twist, push. the door opens out onto a big, disorderly front porch. there is a bamboo curtain hanging on right, shielding that half from the eyes of the street. there are christmas lights wrapped around the painted concrete columns, big lamps hanging in a row over head. none of the lights are on, except one long tube black light, and it illuminates sidewalk chalk lines all over the floor of the porch, the columns, the railing. there is a futon up against the house to my left. there is a doormat made of that hard prickly doormat material that is slightly painful under barefoot. however, i am suddenly overjoyed at the sight of the glowing drawings all around me. i turn and dash inside. have you seen this?!

i get no answer from the snide dirty blond woman on the couch. she is still absorbed in her laptop. i try to find casey, but i grow impatient. i only wish to sit out in the nighttime air, drawing more on the concrete, staring at my chalk-dusty luminescent hands. i go back outside, and all of the overhead lamps are turned on. i can’t see any of the drawings. the light is dry and white. i turn back inside. what happened to the black light? turn it back on! come on!

the woman sighs and presses a button on the arm of the couch. the white lights turn off, and the chalk glows like neon again. i walk outside, sit on the front porch steps. the road is immediately at the foot of the steps, and on the other side of the road there is a stone wall. beyond that it is completely black. i stand, cross the street, and climb up onto the stone wall. still, i can see nothing. i lean forward, inhale. i can’t place the scent. it’s a blank odor. i squint, i lean. the stones are cold and moist. i crouch, feel the cool rocks on my hands. i begin to rise, but lose my footing and fall forwards, plunging a few feet down and into icy cold ocean. i eyes open wide, my entire body screams with surprise. bubbles of the air that i pulled down with me shurn around my limbs and face. i kick to the surface. the water is choppy, it laps against the side of the stone wall, which, unfortunately, is a few feet taller from this side. i can’t reach to pull myself up and over . i am frantic. how will i get back over? i’m freezing cold and soaked to the core. i look all around me, looking for anything at all. i see a light far off, a lighthouse, too far to swim. when i turn to my right, i see two other men treading in frenzy. i call out HELP! HELLO? HELP! PLEASE!

a head peers over the wall, followed by a neck and a pair of shoulder. the head is wearing a hat, the face has a mustache and dark eyes. the shoulders are covered by dark fabric. it is a police officer. help me, please!

- do you have a valid passport?

what? no! i don’t have a passport. i’ve never been out of the country! please, help me. i fell in! i’ll freeze!

- in order to enter the country you need a valid passport.

with that, the shoulders disappeared, followed by the neck and mustache and the head and the hat.

forgetting.

i fight to remember – who (else)? / where? / why?, the conflict, the (resolution / ellipsis). i twist my mind like a rag, but it drips clear, pigment all washed away, and i am here, clean and discontent. who (else)? / where? / why? – how old was i? (is this ten years ago? / this is an hour ago.) this is the accident: erasure. this is permanent and unfortunate. so and so got shot. so and so read it. so and so turned around and moaned. so and so and so and so and so and so. a premonition of absence. a memory of absence (one so strong that the pressure of the walls around it – pressinginpressingin – give it form.) (a tangible emptiness) i try to fill it with other things, with parts new and old and not mine, but nothing fits nothing is nothing (it is). so i fill it with itself, plastic emptiness, erased space, permanent and unfortunate, clean and discontent.

chi-talian and recoveries.

mom and baby brother and i are walking around, trying to find somewhere to eat. the sun is (washed) out, the concrete is bright, the trees are grayish, there is barely anyone else around. what do you want to eat, mom asks me. i don’t know… well are you in the mood for anything special? i still don’t know. let’s just keep walking, and we do. we come up on a weathered-looking turquoise building on out right, pass it. i stop to read what the door. red vinyl sticker letters spell out “CHI-TALIAN RESTAURANT”. hey, mom, what about here? chi-talian? looks kind of like shit, but also kind of awesome, i think to myself. sure, if that’s what you want.

i push the metal door with the reinforced glass window in, bells jingle, i look around. there are people in the place. ahead, slightly to the left, is a counter with cash register, chinese calendar, small bamboo plant, business cards. the edge around the counter is red. there is a dining room to the left, and another to the right. a woman in a chinese-style silk dress walks from the left side and goes around behind the counter, punches buttons on the register. it seems that the right half of the restaurant is the smoking section; clouds of smoke billow and curl in the air. sunlight streams in between the wide open venetian blinds, a fan in the bottom half of one window is on, blowing smoke outside.

we step inside, the door slowly swings shut behind us. the woman looks up at us quickly, you ready to order? her voice is high and nasal, she has a slight chinese accent, she speaks quickly and sharply. ready to order? (i am taken aback) i haven’t even seen a menu. we haven’t even sat down yet! over there. she points to the right wall. what you want to eat? i’m reeling, i don’t even know if i want to eat here. you try brown platter, you’ll like it. you want 5000 dollar roll? what? 5000 dollar roll, very good. what is a brown platter? i look at the menu, and i can make out “brown platter, green platter, orange platter… 100 dollar roll, 300 dollar roll, 1000 dollar roll, 5000 dollar roll…” i, uh… i… can’t… all the platters, rolls… i don’t know what any of this is. can i sit down? mom, can we talk outside? what is in a brown platter?!

—

i’m driving with my family in our boxy old white van. we are driving to new jersey to visit my mother’s parents. we are cruising fast on the interstate, and it looks like there is a storm coming. the van barrels fast down inclines which seem to get longer and steeper every minute. my stomach levitates into my chest like i am on a roller coaster. now we are plummeting down what seems like an eighty degree hill, and i am screaming, begging my father to slow down, but he assures me that everything will be okay. he sounds calm, as if nothing unusual is going on. the clouds are dark gray and churning. finally the road has leveled out, and the stretch of highway that we are on is a land bridge, water on either side. there are thick concrete barriers on both sides of the road, three or four feet tall. the water is choppy, rough, churning like the sky, but far more violently. as we drive, the waves grow, the water crashes on the barriers, waves on the interstate. the wind picks up, the water grows whiter and more menacing. i am afraid, and my fears are realized as the water crashes high over concrete walls, spills across the asphalt, rises.

—

hide and go seek at jessica’s house, crouching in the dress-up closet,  everything turns shades of red, sand is swirling in the air, i have a bad feeling, i peek out of the closet, jaffar finds me.

—

lost in a swirling haze of faces and light and hallways, i see a face, i feel a kiss, a hand on my face, my heart is on fire, then i am alone, lost in a dark and hazy world, wandering ever forward in search of, i feel a chill, my heart is longing, i am alone, i see him, i follow him into the light, he disappears and i am trapped in an alley by dark figures, grinning, ominous, i see him beyond them, i see him in despair, disappear, someone reaches into my chest and squeezes my heart in their hand and it is the worst pain i have ever felt, the pain of betrayal, the pain of abandonment, and i scream and wake up and i can still feel it, and i can feel it all day, and i can feel it when i sleep again, remembering, i can still feel it. vision and revision.

two.

- CAN I PLEASE ASK A QUESTION?

…i shout over the crowd in front of me.

- NO!

in anger and frustration, i jump up and run out of the room, which is the downstairs den of my house in greensboro. i burst through the screen door, and i run through my back yard, through the row of leland cyprus trees, through the yard of my backdoor neighbor alice. i turn right, run across miltwood drive, and continue running towards the park. 

- peter, peter!

i stop and look back. chloe and fiona have followed me. they are stopped too, a good distance away.

- no!

i yell and hold up a middle finger in the air.

then i dash back across the street, away from the park, up a hill covered in pine straw, and then up into the tall thin trees. i say to myself, ha! they won’t be able to get up here!

- (something, something, something…)

i hear will’s voice. he and jacob are on the ground, but seconds later they are climbing up behind me. i am moving upward still though, working my way towards the tree house. i am so close. i try to pulled myself up onto the platform by squeezing through a y-shaped branch joint. i writhe and squirm, but i get stuck… not too stuck though. i know that i can still push myself back the other way, and i feel relief in that at the least. i can hear will and jacob below me.  in front of my eyes is the bottom of an edge of the platform. a lot of tiny coral-colored spiders are crawling around on the edges. i hear will say…

- (something about) crab spiders! (something about) males and females. (something about) a big one!

i kick at the bottom of the platform, and i wave my arms around. i want to keep these spiders off of me, and i wanted to get away from everyone, but i know that i can go up no further! i decided to get down.

—

i am in a library, but not a familiar one. i assume it is in chapel hill, but i don’t feel like i am in chapel hill. i see a person who, from the back, looks very familiar. i decide not to approach him, because i am not sure he is someone i know, and a lot of people look similar from the back. i walk around the wide open floor. a large information center is in the middle of the space. there are computers at desks in a room to one side, and there are stacks of shelves of books to the other. i can’t get over the feeling that i know the person who i saw from the back. he is still standing at one side of the information desk, wearing a backpack on one shoulder, leaning over to counter to ask the attendant a question. i think to myself, i know i know you, i know i know you.. 

i decide to sit down at one of the desks in the room full of computers. i look at the screen, tap on the keys. then i feel someone behind me, coming ever closer, like an impending sneeze. i think to myself i know someone is behi-, when i feel a tap on my shoulder. i turn around tensely, and i look up, and i see who it is, this time from the front…

- HEY! what are you doing here?!

…and my HEY resounds through the silence of the library, but i don’t care, and i jump up, and i almost trip on the leg of my chair, and you catch me and hug me at the same time, and i hug you, and i kiss you quickly, and you kiss me, and minutes later we sit together at a table in another room and you ask me where we can eat. i say that i am fairly sure that there is a restaurant connected to this library, and we set off to look for it. coming around a corner, i see a podium and big circular tables with white tablecloths. everything looks like it does outside when the sky is overcast with thick blankets of clouds. all the colors are muted and kind of blown out. there is grayness to the mirrors, the chandeliers, the silverware. the maître d’ greets us, and leads us to a table that could easily seat ten. 

to my surprise, sarah rose enters, dressed in yellow, and she greets us and takes a seat at the table. one by one, and sometimes in pairs, other friends arrive at the restaurant and join us. they are all very happy to see you, and so am i.

i stand up and walk out of the large dining room, out to a covered walkway that runs rectangular around a large stone courtyard, and i look out over its grayness.

i glance back at the table in the dining room. i do want to eat anything, because i am not hungry.

new jersey.

i am in new jersey with leigh. we are driving around the state, nowhere near her home. i get the feeling that she likes new jersey when she is driving around in the sunshine, even though most other times she will say she hates the place. we speed down wooded back roads. pines reach tall into the sky, large houses peak between their trunks. i realize that we are in cherry hill when we drive past the lake that i used to spend time at when i was young and my family would visit my mother’s parents in the summer. i, with my mother or brother or both, would trek through the trees, along the light tan rocks-and-dirt path trodden by neighbors for years, past the bush where one time a group of children spotted a black snake coiled in its shade, onto the bridge, onto another path. in actuality there is not a road that goes past this lake, but i feel comfort in nostalgia. brown water washes up onto the rocky sand; the concrete pavilion sits far up the beach, deserted in the sun; the platform in the middle of the roped off swimming area glistens, or seems to because of the sunlight reflecting bright off of the stained water. 

leigh is taking me to one of her favorite places. we pull into a driveway, through a gate, around the back of a large building. everything looks bleached in the high sun. we get out of the car. all around in front of us there are rows and rows of tall  stacks of shelves. each stack houses different objects – candle holders, various plates, brass ashtrays, shoes, door knobs, embroidered handkerchiefs - each shelf is a further division of those objects, by size, color, etc. typewriters, lampshades, electronic parts. i wander in and out of rows, pick up little things, inspect them and then i put them back where they were. i don’t have any money to spend, and at this moment this seems especially unfortunate. in the distance there is a huge pile of unsorted clothing. there are car parts, furniture. this is the most well organized junkyard i have ever seen. i find leigh again near where we parked. she is talking to a stocky, graying, long-haired man with a skinny braided ponytail. he is weathered, tanned, with earrings. i introduce myself. assuming that he is in charge, i compliment the place. we chat, he tells me all about it. this business is not open to the public, because technically it is illegal. apparently all of the stock is salvaged from trash cans and dumpsters. i think to myself that i understand that why some people might be upset that this man collects trash, cleans it up, and then sells it again, but i think it is ridiculous that he should be punished for being such a clever entrepreneur. 

eventually we end up inside the building, and it is more of the same, but most of the objects inside the place are nicer than the ones outside. i am more and more impressed the more i wander around. there are door mats and picture frames and myriad other things. i compliment the man again on how great the place is, and i tell him i that i wish i had some money with me.

i’m glad you like it, he says. then he asks me, would you like to see the secret studios?

i tell him that i would love that. i don’t see leigh anywhere, but i’m sure she’s wandering around looking at things, not far away. i am led through the stacks of shelves, through a door, and down a hall, until we halt outside another door. the man knocks and immediately turns the doorknob to enter. inside is a small room, maybe ten feet by 14 feet. the walls are white. in the far left corner there is a mattress on a box spring. on the right-hand wall there is a desk with a large, flat computer monitor on top, and on the left-hand wall there is another similar desk with a sewing machine and various scraps on it. it is the studio of a girl with short light brown hair. she rises from the mattress quickly to greet us. i walk over to shake her hand and then lean down to see what she is has going on on her computer. she sits down in the chair and begins clicking. the girl explains her method. she uses her computer to design smooth, 3d organic shapes. some of them resemble real things, some of them fit together with others, but they are all curves and points, without wide angles or square corners. i notice on the desk, around the monitor, some of these little figures that have been turned into very small stuffed objects. all of these ones are shiny and bright lime green. it seems that she designs the shapes on her computer, and then makes miniature stuffed versions of them. i straighten my back, standing to look around the room more while she continues to click away. on the desk on the opposite wall are more of these stuffed shapes, a whole set of them, only these ones are made out of rubbery metallic gold material instead of glossy lime green. i am in awe of these little organic shapes. why make these? what do they mean? i accept them as art, but they confuse and intrigue me.

i tell the girl artist that i was pleased to meet her, and the graying long-haired man leads me out and over to another room. we enter, and it looks completely different from the other studio. it is much larger, with higher ceilings. everything is black or crimson or purple, and it is laid out more like a boutique than a studio. another man comes around from behind a rack of clothing and greets us. i am introduced, and then told that this artist specializes in collecting rare and valuable objects. i am not sure how that makes this man and artist, but i cannot deny that many of the things in this room are very beautiful. i find my way over to a stack of glass shelves, and my eyes move slowly over each beautiful thing. an antique folding fan is my favorite object there. it is covered in beads and painted beautifully on the inside, but it is very expensive. i notice in my peripheral vision something that seems out of place: one whole corner of the room is filled with tye-dye shirts, hanging on two levels of hangers. they are all different. 

oh yes, says the artist man. i make these.

though the shirts are all different colors and variations of tye-dye, they all have one thing in common: each shirt has a fuzzy spray-painted stencil of a panda bear on the front. i think these shirts are cute, but i think i would probably never buy one because i could easily make my own. 

somehow i find my way outside. i look left and right, walk out into the deserted street. the sun is bright, and everything looks like a blown out photograph. i realize that i do not want to be outside. leigh is inside, she drove here, and i do not know where i am. i turn and look up the street. at the corner up ahead, there is a glass door that seems to lead into the building i was just in. i walk towards it. suddenly i am hailed from behind by a short fat man in a plaid button-up shirt. the has greasy, long black hair, pulled back in a thin ponytail. 

you don’t want to go in that way.

why not? i ask.

there’s a mean, dirty old negro who hides in the entryway to the building. he’s blind, but he’s dangerous. you don’t want to go in that way.

what a fucked up security system. i imagine the “mean, dirty old negro” cowering in the dark, coming into the light of the open glass door, cataracts milky white in the sun. i imagine a crooked, incomplete set of teeth, reddish-brown gums. 

come on, i’ll take you back inside. follow me.

i follow the man inside, and we go into the main sales floor of the large building, where i left leigh to go with the man in charge. we approach the cash register, and there is leigh, and the gray-haired man, and a trendy looking blonde woman with a large cardboard box next to her on the counter. i get close enough that i can hear her speak, i can see what she has in her hands, what i assume is also filling the large box. the woman has olive green sunglasses in her hands. they are bizarre. the chunky plastic frame of the glasses continues where there would normally be lenses, and in the center of each opaque would-be-lens there is a slanting jagged cut-out with a dark lens showing through it. i would never wear these glasses, but they’re kind of cool, and maybe they would look better in a different color? i gather that the woman came to the junk store to find out whether or not the man in charge would be interested in selling these fashion sunglasses.

how much per pair? the gray-haired man asks from behind the register.

$350, says the sales woman, and we all laugh involuntarily, unable to comprehend that the wholesale price of these glasses is $350. that’s a ridiculous price to pay for such ridiculous glasses. needless to say, the gray-haired man was not interested in selling the things.

jessica tells me i’m looking really healthy.

cancer.

sometimes the waves wash high up into the beach, lapping at the outer edge of the board walk even! the sunbathers retreat, clouds roll in and block most of the light from the sun. wind speed picks up. children run down to the edge of the receding water, then they dash back up the beach with ecstatic shrieks of fear, and the water pursues them until it can roll no further. there is worry etched on some people’s faces. some are in awe. the dark water crashes against the sand, sun-bleached posts and boards.

—

i open the envelope, addressed to me from my old high school. it contains test results, medical ones. we regret to inform you that you have cancer. we regret. to inform you. that i have cancer? i have cancer? cancer? cancer. i am crying. my grandmother had cancer. cancer of the liver. did anyone else in my family have cancer too? how is this possible? at my age… i am going to die. how long do i have? it does not say. what else does it say? i can’t read through the water in my eyes. all i know is that i have cancer, and i assume i do not have long to live.

my day is ruined. i do not know what to do. i continually break down, unable to contain my fear, my anger. i’ll give anything to live. i’ll never smoke another cigarette… please! i don’t want to die. 

i am with some friends, and we are at a lake. i feel a terrible tension in whole body, but i am happy to be with them. they are friends from school, and some people from winston-salem who i just met. they try to take my mind off of things. we climb on the playground island of bars and a ladder and a large platform and a slide. a few people jump off of the edge and into the water. in the next instant i am standing on the edge of the lake looking across. in the instant after that the group and i are walking up a large hill covered in large, globular, smooth, white stones. the hill leads up to a big wood and glass lake cottage-type house, it is apparently the back of the middle college, the place i technically graduated from. i only went to the regular high school (the one i got the news from) for the first three years.

—

somewhere in colorado, we pull into a rest stop. it is cavernous, like made of caves. the floor is level and concrete, but the walls and ceiling are red like clay, stalactites, layers of earth. there is an information desk, but no one is behind it. to the left of the desk there are bathrooms, but neither of us go into one. this place is deserted, you said, but you were wrong, and you were wearing a cyan blue bandana. your backpack was huge, and i watched you hike it up on your shoulders, and i listened to the things hanging off of it clink and clang. 

and old man, weathered and looking well beaten appeared. i don’t remember what he said, only that i didn’t want to stay at this rest stop very much longer. why don’t we just use the bathroom and leave, now?

deadlines, valentines.