doing what I want no matter what it is and I like drifting and I
run i f I have to; someone’s always there, kind or otherwise,
you decide quick. I love the dark, it’s got no rough edges for
me. I hear every sound without trying. I feel as if I was born
knowing every signal. I’m an animal on instinct lucky to be in
the right jungle, a magic animal charged with everything
intense and sacred, and I hate cages. I’m the night, the same.
Y ou have to hurt it to hurt me. I am one half o f everything
lawless the night brings, every lawless embrace. I can smell
where to turn in the dark, it’s not something you can know in
your head. It’s a whisper so quiet not even the dead could hear
it. It’s touching fire so fast you don’t burn your hand but the
fire’s real. I don’t know much, not what things are called or
how to do them right or how people act all the regular times.
Everything is ju st what it is to me with nothing to measure it
against and no w ay to check and I don’t have any tom orrow
and I don’t have a yesterday that I can remember because the
days and nights just go on and on and never stop and never
slow down and never turn regular; nothing makes time
normal. I have nineteen cents, I buy a big purple thing, it’s
with the vegetables, a sign says eggplant, it’s the cheapest
thing there is, I never saw one before, I try to cook it in m y one
pan in a little water, I eat it, you bet I do, it’s an awful thing, I
see w hy momma always used vegetables in cans but they cost
more. I buy rice in big unmarked bags, I think it’s good for
you because Asian people eat it and they have lived for
centuries no matter how poor they are and they have an old
civilization so it must be good but then someone says it has
starch and starch is bad so I stop buying it because the man’s very
disapproving as if I should know better because it makes you fat
he says. I just boil what there is. I buy whatever costs what I have
in m y pocket. I don’t know what people are talking about
sometimes but I stay quiet because I don’t want to appear so
ignorant to them, for instance, there are funny words that I
can’t even try to say because I think they will laugh at me but I
heard them once like zucchini, and if someone makes something and hands it to me I eat it. Sometimes someone asks me if
I like this or that but I don’t know what they mean and I stare
blankly but I smile and I don’t know what they think but I try
to be polite. I worked at the Student Peace Union and the War
Resisters League to stop the bomb and I was a receptionist at a
place that taught reading and I was a waitress at a coffee shop
that poured coffee-to-go and I typed and carried packages and
I went with men and they had smoke or food or music or a
place to sleep. I didn’t get much money and I didn’t keep any
jobs because mostly I lived in pretty bad places or on the streets
or in different places night to night and I guess the regular
people didn’t like it or wanted to stay away but I didn’t care or
think about it and I never thought about being regular or
looking regular or acting regular; I did what I wanted from
what there was and I liked working for peace and the rest was
for cigarettes. I slept in living rooms, on cots, on floors, on
soiled mattresses, in beds with other people I didn’t know who
fucked while I slept, in Brooklyn, in Spanish Harlem, near
Tompkins Square Park, in abandoned buildings, in parks, in
hallways, curled up in corners. Y ou can build your own walls.
Even the peace people had apartments and pretty things and
warm food, it seemed regular and abundant but I don’t know,
I never asked them for anything but sometimes someone took
me home and I could see. I didn’t know where it came from; it
was just like some play with scenery. They had plants or
pretty rugs or wool things or pots; posters; furniture; heat;
food; things around. I tried to live in a collective on Avenue B
and I was supposed to have a bed and we were going to cook
and all but that was where the junkies kept rolling on top o f me
because the collective would never tell anyone they couldn’t
sleep there and I never was there early enough so there wasn’t
someone asleep where I thought was mine. I never did really
sleep very well, it’s sort o f a lie to say I could sleep with junkies
rolling over on top o f me, a little bravado on m y part, except I
fell o ff to sleep, or some state o f less awake, and then it’d
happen. Y ou are always awake a little. I lived in a living room
o f a woman for peace who lived with her brother. He slept in
the living room, she slept in the bedroom, but she put me in
the living room with him. He breathed heavy and stayed up
watching me and I had to move out because she said he
couldn’t sleep. I stayed anywhere I could for as long as I could
but it w asn’t too long usually. I slept on benches and in
doorways. D oorw ays can be like palaces in the cold, in the
dark, when it’s wet; doorways are strong; you feel sheltered,
like in the arms o f God, unless the wind changes and comes
right at you and drives through you; then you wake up already
shivering, sleep pulling you down because you want to believe
you are only dreaming the wind is driving through you, but
you started to shake unconscious and the cold permeates your
body before you can bring your mind to facing it. Y ou can’t
find any place in N ew Y ork that doesn’t have me in it. I’m
stuck in the dark, m y remembrance, a shadow, a shade, an
old, dark scar that keeps tearing, dark edges ripping, dark
blood spilling out, there’s a piece left o f me, faded, pasted onto
every night, the girl who wanted peace. Later I found out it
was Needle Park or Bed-Stuy or there were whores there or it
was some kind o f sociological phenomenon and someone had
made a documentary showing the real shit, some intrepid
filmmaker, some hero. It never happened. N o one ever
showed the real shit because it isn’t photogenic, it doesn’t
stand still, people just live it, they don’t know it or conceptualize it or pose for it or pretend it and you don’t get to do it over i f you make a mistake. Y ou just get nailed. Fucked or hit
or hurt or ripped o ff or poisoned with bad shit or yo u ’re just
dead; there’s no art to it. There’s more o f me stuck in that old
night than anywhere. Y o u don’t just remember it; it remem
bers you; Andrea, it says, I know you. Y ou do enough in it and
it takes you with it and I’m there in it, every night on every
street. When the dark comes, I come, every night, on every