Don’t you have a map?

A collaborative, traveling essay in letters ‘twixt Erika Howsare & Jen Tynes

Part 6, J to E —

Local water, two incidents —

(a) Brushing my teeth into the bowl, alarm.
Turns out was the food dye.

(b) Head thrown forth, washing it, when all the water
running through it was changed.
Checking for an envelope, a passage.

(c) I know there has been some flooding. I know how the story
focuses on the eye, does not bother with basements though basements
are the reason for all this cleanliness.

(d) Incident: a woman in a clear plastic hat being rolled away at an angle, her breathing
apparatus also being hauled atop the huffing of several un-relatives.

(e) In the same way that ‘cleave’ contains its opposite. The car stereos
in my neighborhood find themselves at home even in darkness.

(f) Local water is less drinkable in more moderate/conservative places, where people
have vehicles to drive away from it, try something else.

(g) In the same way that ‘to knife’ suggests handiness.

(h) That fellow knows his way around a girl.

(i) The hierarchy suggested by alphabetization remembers when classification was
freedom from thinking about those things, all the time, holding them in the mind’s eye.

(j) Don’t forget the locations of live wires. Call JULIE if you need help.

(k) Speaking for myself, about myself, I encounter two incidents, both hinged on (false) expectancy.

(l) Color recognition, pandering.

(m) If you hurry up and tell them they will hiccup: laugh.

(n) I recognize the bird outside. I recognize the piece of the bone that is broken in order
to make wishes.

(o) Two incidents involving American forces, that song kids sing at graduation.

(p) Two incidents that killed fish without thinking and then carried everything back home.

(q) Two incidents in front of the colorful house, the house that is our opposite.

(r) Two incidents that I wrote about previously now
running around, the threat is very real.

(s) I worry that the ear will come back to haunt me, though I’ve “cleaved” it many times.

(t) The roundabout presence of an ambulance siren, that keeps you from knowing its (con)figuring.

(u) If the sentence is like a cancer with a tendency to mosaic.

(v) If the sentence etc etc always starts out on the surface.

(w) (The usual five, apologies for the wide silence.)

· · ·

E responds to J at http://kore.livejournal.com in about two weeks.
Please visit http://www.horselesspress.com/amap.html for the whole hog.

Email Erika & Jen: editors AT horselesspress DOT com

Erika Howsare (© 2006)