Driving to work I thought certainly as I flipped through the radio stations ignoring the K-reports that this day wouldn’t be that much of a big deal — no different, really, than yesterday or the day before that. But I actually ended up in shock today, and even now, putting together the ninety minutes that followed the incident, I can’t quite put them in order — almost like a dream, how the images flicker and the story progresses but perhaps I’m putting last what happened first. Although I know that first I spent the noon hour in a Katrina memorial service at the medical school auditorium — the first event there since the storm, so a good sign of progress. And so many students back, med school students too. But how I ran into one who I particularly admired and when I asked if she was happy to be back she grunted and must have decided better than to provide a full answer but what she didn’t say in this case said enough. And then walking back to my office a monarch butterly dying in the middle of the road. Not quite dead. I stopped in the middle of the road, for a moment not sure what to do. Step on it? Pick it up? Was it miserable? Would it just flutter to death? The wings still vibrant and pulsing up and down, but the cars coming toward us. The light still red but would turn green soon and I ought finish crossing the road. Then back at my desk, a phone call that left me sad too, about all the ways I tried to put things back together once but can’t because it’s not mine to put back together, and feeling disoriented about that and grafetul I got to leave early to see my therapist. Only on my way to the parking garage, I’m walking down the street and a car comes blazing down the road with its horn blasting and I turn back, watch cars swing out of its way. What part of me expected to see the car stop at the emergency room doors so that a woman in labor could be let out? I don’t know, but I know that’s what I expected.

Instead the driver — who I had at first taken to be an old woman with thinning stringy hair — jumped out, barefoot, without a shirt on, just some long shorts and his ribs just a cavity of bones and his skin too thin, someone too young to look that old but worn by life as a junkie, just wasted out — what the hell was he doing behind the wheel of a car? And he runs to the passenger’s side while a girl — not more than a teenager — hops out the backseat — and at the same time they reach to open the passenger’s door and reach in, and the flopsiest body I’ve ever seen gets yanked out — blood all over his head and neck — he’s beenn shot. And there’s a man next to me who reminds me vaguely of a man in a dream I had in December, and he’s remarkably attractive with the smoothest cheeks and wavy hair I’ve ever seen and I’m not more than six inches away from him, and that lasts only a second before I have to push past him because I realize that somehow he’s the visual opposite of the scene on the other side of the road, as though he actually looks too perfect to be standing here in this god-awful place, and maybe he’s thinking the same thing, the look on his face seems to say, Where the hell am I?, and his feet won’t move, it’s as though his body is solidly in place and he hasn’t even breathed deeply or shifted weight from foot to foot, so I step around him and there’s a fence and my hand reaches but I just keep walking, and I’m just ten feet away from where my husband gave me a gift last week in the rain, and I look back and the junkie and the teenager girl are jumping up and down and running in circles on the sidewalk with their hands and arms in the air but everything is surprisingly quiet, and instead of realizing I’m saying it, I hear myself say, Oh my God, and then the EMTs and paramedics are at the car putting the guy on the stretcher and he’s not even dead yet, his body is jerking and I’m not actually sure I’m watching, it’s like I’m watching over my shoulder, watching people watching the scene, and it’s hard to believe that nurses have come out the health clinic to stand there open-mouthed, and I’m further dismayed that even the health care workers are in some stage of shock or surprise. Suddenly people everywhere, walking out their — what?, there’s nothing there! — walking out from somewhere, watching. I get in my car and by the time I’m pulling out the garage, the police surround the car, the girl, the skin and bones.

This isn’t even the part I keep playing over in my head. Instead I play over the hour after when I was trying to put thoughts together — trying to make sense out of the incomprehensible is how Lynn put it — and all the images and stories that ended up together tied only by the thread that they came from a mind at a loss as to how a man’s life ends up so f*cked up that he arrives at the hospital with a bullet in his head, driven by a junkie without shoes or a shirt, and yanked out the car as though he might have been left there if the other two could have gotten back in the car before anybody stopped them. And how I don’t exactly feel responsible, but how I know that they’re just as much a part of this society as the rest of us, and that something fundamentally wrong has happened and is happening – and I thought about the Auden’s poem “September 1, 1939,” which I read last night, and Brodsky’s essay, and the topic of Hitler’s formative years, and how much a childhood can make a man sick — and how sad it is, how completely sad it is, that anyone has to grow up in a neighborhood in America where shootings at three in the afternoon aren’t too far from the norm.

So that’s my 1-K day, and other things too — like what people have made it through still functioning and responsible and smiling, doing what it takes to take care of themselves and the people they love. And how I asked Lynn how it is that some people can mess up their lives so much — like, how did it actually happen? Well, she said, for some it’s virtually overnight — something happens and CRACK they’re gone from how everybody once knew them, even themselves, and for others just a slope they keep going down, sometimes such a gentle slope they don’t see it happening at first but then they do or the slope gets steeper and they can’t stop — or feel like they can’t stop. And I just pictured the guy driving the car — how out of it he looked — how at some point he must have been a child, must have found pleasure somewhere – or maybe not? – and how someone who whose violent father died and she finally made peace with his memory when she saw a photo of him as a child walking through a field of sunflowers, as though somehow he had actually existed another way — and that thought, coupled with the image of the junkie and his shot companion, wondering what the sunflower field was in their own pasts – and how sad it was that they ended up one afternoon, middle of the day when the President was giving a speech blocks away and a jazz funeral was going on, they still ended up at the hospital, one without most of his clothes on and the other with a bullet in his head. I don’t understand how the fall happens. Or maybe sometimes I understand how, just not why. So much more out there. Because today a woman who lost her father and sister in the storm walked out the memorial service with a smile for the person next to her, and she walked tall like it came natural and there was a peace about her. Resilience.

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Sitting on the edge of the bed next to a backpack, papers sticking out — he has written the story of helping Casey decorate her orange tree — he will return to the house day after day with new ornaments — the handwriting is scratchy, almost illegible. He’s asleep in the next room. In Alabama, I was staying near the summer camp I attended as a child — I knocked on his door but only heard him snoring. Wanted to show him the place, the hidden magical spots where I used to go, but must have lost the chance. Outside the window, the sea. I walked away from the bed toward the hall and he walked out, said I really didn’t need to go. But what should I have done? The view was nice — outside, suddenly a crowd of people — a set of uneven parallel bars from gymnastics next to the water. I hop on, remind my body it once knew how to swing around the bars. I try but don’t have enough strength in my arms and stomach so I just launch into a handstand and stay there, admiring the view below — a stampede of horses skim across the water — powerful and elegant — their hooves don’t even make splashes, it’s as though where they run, the water is solid. But large men like Vikings are waist deep and can’t keep up speed despite brashness and weapons. They thrash about, are no match against the speed and strength of the horses.

Walking down the street a college roommate is turning around her car to park and I keep walking. She’s wearing pink sunglasses and concentrating on the park, doesn’t notice me. I have somewhere to be and keep going — when I arrive I’m in the front left seat of a car. Should be the driver’s but I feel like the passenger. We’re not moving anyway. We’re parked on the side of the road listening to music. She says it took her decades to figure out what this song is about. Do I know? I shake my head, though recognize the tune. Do you even know when it came out? No, I say. You would be surprised, she says. In front of the car a scene like the moon and a band playing, tassle pants and feathered hair. To the right of the car the parts and equipment at an auto garage. The guys working are suspicious why we’re there but we’re not taking up valuable space so they leave us alone. They don’t notice the band singing. The band appears to be a projection of this woman’s imagination or the radio, not actually real. She says the band that sounds full and looks wild is really singing about Jesus — but nobody would even know that. I listen to the words closer and it’s true, it could be about Jesus. It sounds at the surface like it’s about something else but it’s much larger than that.

Other dreams too — a stage, a camera delivered to my office by mistake that was supposed to go to someone else who gives me the rest of it anyway and then discovers part of it is missing and I tell him I already have it and he says But how did they know it was for you? and I say I don’t know — and I DON’T know — because the box it came in isn’t even addressed to me and yet somehow it made it to me. The stage full of performers. My turn to dance. I lie down instead. The man with the gift of the camera arrives, sits next to me, begins opening the boxes.

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The ferris wheel — steel and aluminum with lightbulbs blinking blue and yellow in the mist — the mist wrapping the gondolas — two women on the ferris wheel who can’t see one another because of the mist — I can see them both, I’m standing under the wheel at the back of it so it spins overhead — their feet occassionally dangling over me – when the wheel stops –the loud lurch of metal against metal, of a gear shifting – they notice each other, the younger one slender with long blonde hair and a bag, the older with short cropped hair and slender, like two versions of the same woman, a couple decades apart. The younger looks back toward me, not at me exactly, but as though she’s trying to decide if this is okay so I say in my head It’s okay, do it and so she does, with a bit more confidence, she walks up to the older lady, possibly a version of herself and says, Would you like to go to the Smithsonian with me — the original drafts of Howl are on display? A sense of sadness combined with pride as they walk away side by side. In the museum, well-lit rooms with walls of paintings, with display cases of books and manuscripts. The rooms empty but comfortably lit to feel full. Then through a wide doorway I see them standing around the Howl display – other people too — then the scene changes and I’m in my living room. This is the last day. Everything is already over. He’s folding towels and there’s so much laughter in the house — we’re watching the Presidential debates which are now produced by Saturday Night Live. There are real candidates but each one also has a goof who can respond immediately — a “mock” debate being simulcast, sometimes two images on screen at the same time, one with subtitles – we’re laughing about it and cleaning, agree that we don’t know which version is funnier – he leans to fold another towel, says he didn’t know something this boring could be so fun — I say Happiness is in every room if — I walk into the bathroom to wash my hands in the sink. Water splashes everywhere, coats the mirror. When I wipe the surface, it’s as though a gel of water coats the glass. I keep wiping but each pass only muddles more — each dot of water is as though applied with a paintbrush, like a painting I might have seen once, something like pointilism but with brief brushes instead of dots and the only image that of water turned to gel — and when I finally get it clean he’s left for a party, sorry he didn’t realize this actually could have been fun the note says – the best route to happiness, I jot on the page, is through sadness instead of around it. I make a list of the things humans do to avoid sadness but the list turns into a bag full of glass bottles and junk. I pack a suitcase and am carrying a towel over it, draped over my arm — night now, walking through a parking lot, across a busy street when there’s a lull in traffic. Another parking lot. Do you want to go with me? she asks. She’s carrying her own bags, a blanket. Where are you going? I ask. To watch the debates at the Mall, she says. Both versions — real and mock — are on different stages. Are you driving or walking? I say I don’t mind walking, it’s only three miles. She says But I’m driving and that’s where I’m going. I look at the lots, wonder which one holds her car. We walk on together. I never liked her before but lately she’s nice to me. I’m nice to her too. Neither of us can remember why we didn’t like each other though we remember an argument years ago – neither of us can remember what it was about – could that have been all it was?

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The house I wanted to live in — a tiny light glowing in each window — he lives there now, has one month rent paid for him — the rooms empty but I can see where I’d put my furniture — a few travel bags on the floor. I wander through the house, watching how the light comes through the windows. In the kitchen nook at the breakfast table, the two chairs don’t face the table, one leg of each slipping off the ledge. Through the window, I see a small pool wrapped in foliage, palms, wide leaves, green and burgundy. Laughter in another room. The girls are playing. A fish swims to the window, cartoonish and cute. Wiggles and swims away. In the living room, X is sitting down with his friend who coordinated this place — she introduces me to the neighbor, her aunt. I explain that I grew up down the block, try to explain the French doors that are no longer on it. I remember them, she says. She offers to rent the place to me next. I suggest I want to buy it. She’ll ask the owner, she says, but don’t count on it. And don’t move in here she says, and ask month after month if you can buy it. If you decide to rent it, that’s that. She nods to him. And him? she asks. He’ll stay on? I shrug, say I don’t know.

Outside X and I walk to the backyard, which sits overhead like a landing jutting from the second floor. The ground beneath is rocky, dusty, striped red and green with a few suns hitting it at various stages of setting — like a different planet. We stand under the landing, parts of the pool’s bottom hanging around us, a kind of cave, magical with the plants dropping off the landing around us. We stand close to each other, face to face but hardly touching. Earlier I’m at a restaurant with Y, who I don’t want to be with, who I haven’t seen in ages, who wants me to go back to his hotel room with him. My cell phone rings and it’s X; I want to answer his call but if I answer when I’m here he’ll know where I am, think the worst. I tell Y I need to dry my hair, leave the table, go to the bathroom in the basement. Want to call X but can’t get reception. Want to avoid this dinner but can’t figure out how to leave. Dry my hair under the electric hand dryer. Upstairs I return to the table, throw some money down, say I’m out of here. He’s stunned but doesn’t get off the phone before I’m out the door.

In my grandmother’s house full of people, everyone lunching or talking. A blanket at the bottom of the stairs. I slip under, snuggly to fall asleep. X is there so I lean over and hug him and the hug quickly turns into kissing. The way that can only happen in a dream, how two people turn into one shape, like a planet full of moving arms inside. Are you sure you want to do this? she asks overhead, looming. I stand quickly, lift the blanket. Nothing is even there. Was I dreaming? I don’t understand how nothing is there. I walk through the house where pockets of people are talking. Music from upstairs. I walk up the steps, every door I open it’s cousins on beds playing cards or writing at desks or talking around a table — they’re having fun — I keep opening doors — more people laughing. Where did he go? I hear the shower running. I stand outside the bathroom door with my hand against it. I crack it open and steam pours out. Can’t see but know by the smell of the soap and shampoo that it’s him. I close door and sit down, have brief conversations with passing people. The door finally opens and he’s standing there and says I had no idea you’d have to wait that long.

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