I will look for her. Julie asks me where she has gone. Neither of us knows. Nowhere, I guess. Here in this house. Behind the curtains. Beneath the couch. She has rubbed her scent on every door jamb. On the legs of every chair. I live in her territory.
My carceral interests began at a very young age. I was fascinated by the idea of living, against one’s will, in a miniature society that’s kept completely apart from the rest of the world. Over time this interest expanded to include insane asylums, castaways and cults.
“Julie,” he said. “You need to prepare yourself for tomorrow. These are people who have been devastated. They are self-conscious. You need to not register any shock when talking to them. You need to make them feel welcome and normal. Do you understand?”
“My completed questionnaire should have taken me about five minutes. But I spent days composing it, laboring over its many facets of subject matter. It was more like an opus, an emotional, spiritual and intellectual topographic map of my internal landscape. This questionnaire was going to be a window into my soul. Surely others were sending in similar representations of themselves.”
“The shift in conversation happened gradually but noticeably. One week Ron was pointing out various sites of the Underground Railroad, as well as homes of abolitionists, around Staten Island. The next he was starting to share more personal information about himself. It began with a vague statement concerning marital discontent.”
“On the box was a whispy-haired woman – smiling demurely, her eyes lowered – wearing some kind of pastel-colored chiffon top. She certainly didn’t look like she had a raging infection in her most personal of areas.”