VI. At a show where not a single word is wasted, she sits next to me and tells me she is afraid of two things: poetry and leaving the apartment. I sit between her and a man with whom I have eaten dinner only once, and when I have to go to the bathroom, the man’s daughter tells me that I have to go down some stairs and then up some others.  Everyone I meet along the way tells me the same thing whether or not I ask, until I arrive at the bathroom. And, standing in line, a person with a camera, tells me, “grandmas really had a good thing going.”

VII. She sits next to me and tells me she is afraid of two things: poetry and leaving the apartment. And I am only afraid of the latter but that is enough for both of us, even if it’s not an adequate archive of the evening. In the note before the exergue before the preamble before the forward before the theses, Derrida reminds us that Freud’s house is a museum because it is an intersection of singularity and law.  Everyone knows the way to the bathroom, even me, and I overhear a story about why someone is here: she, well, her friend—no, her friend’s roommate, well, her roommate’s friend’s friend’s old roommate, but now, she guesses, they are friends too.

VIII. At a show where not a single word is wasted, I am afraid of two things. I arrive a few minutes late and presumably miss a big fanfare about the remarkable history of the venue. It’s a very old building which probably never gets used without an appreciative fanfare. Fortunately, heavy rafters subdivide the roof and it’s not unlike being in a church or your memory of your visualization of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s old school. All week I have been reading about Christina the Astonishing who, after dying, leapt up from her coffin and into the church’s rafters because she, “could not abide the smell of men.”

IX. I am afraid of two things: I have to go down some stairs and up some others. She is talking about a piece of jewelry and not looking at my cane when she tells me that grandmas really had a good thing going. After the show we stand around talking. She and I have both come to see our roommates, who are now also our friends, and to see each other because the Internet said we’d both be there. She tells me how, on a podcast or something, she heard a term for how we all carry around our cell phones with our entire social networks in our pockets. The term is “ambient intimacy.” We all stand on the bottom floor of a very old building.

X. Up some others, my hip gives on the icy walk home but we make it. And before we leave I make her call over her roommate so that we can all four stand together. She and hers, me and mine. We are both afraid of leaving the apartment but have, in part, brought the apartments along.  We are important to each other not only because we are the privileged intersection of singularity and law. We also love—. We say goodbye to everyone but then meet them again on the sidewalk. First her roommate, who tells us that they lost the car and had to go a block in the wrong direction. Then my roommate, who tells us that they lost the car and had to go a block in the other direction.

XI.  At a show where not a single word is wasted, we make it. I send a text message to my roommate and she responds: “for some reason I knew that you would have texted me.” And when she gets home she asks whether she told me the funny story about how they lost the car. It turned out that Christina wasn’t dead. Today people like to write about how she probably had a seizure and that’s fine I guess, but they’re really obsessed with it. All over the Internet people are telling me that Christina’s temporary death has a medically identifiable cause. Okay, okay. Still, there’s a lot of other undiagnosed magic in that story. She did jump into the rafters for goodness sake!

XII. It’s too late to stop the cherry pulsing. Maybe to you it’s all numbers and dots– our whole past rewritten as appointment times. My parts have sprung out my back– the soft 9-volt back-up battery pad swinging unused on red and black wires. Everywhere, used and unused, I am red and black. I stuff it back inside like the ribbons for hanging up ladies’ clothing. I keep my open back to the wall, sliding from room to room so that I do not come undone. I have nightmares that always begin with a jolt and end with wondering why I’ve never bought a battery. If You Hate Resetting the Alarm Clock So Much. If I hate resetting the alarm clock so much.

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