Aura Girl 13

Isn’t normal to see auras. Not that she sees ‘em all that much anymore.

The girl keeps writing against herself. Tearing pieces of paper off trees and tryin’ to eat ‘em so they’ll tell her somethin’.

I watch her walk around, scratchin’ her head, listenin’ to Muddy Waters croon about a woman. She runs and thinks, That’s what I have inside me—hip bones.

So I send her visions of rabbit ears in pavement cracks.

See that? That’s 33X07, I say. And she hears. Writes it down.

Dreams of falling down a cave. Dreams of tattoos on the inside of horses.

Yeah, it isn’t normal. But is drinkin’ all night, stumbling into the sidewalk, laughing at the shape your body makes, normal?

Let’s think about it. Let’s listen to what’s goin’ on inside. You know that Joyce character? He walked around and wrote whatever was on his mind.

I tell the girl that God isn’t gonna just hit you on the head, drop an acorn of prophesy on you and say, Write about it.

I’m the girl with no-face. I live in the Other Place.

She carries on in That Place, with its trees and beer and men that don’t really know what’s goin’ on inside her.

So I send her visions of the man by the East gate. He’s lost, too, in that Other Place. He’s scratchin’ his head, walkin’ around, lookin’ for tattoos on the inside of horses.

He likes to eat animals. He listens to them. I send him mice. Or rabbits.

I told him, I said, shoot the rabbit. Rip off its ear. Nail it to the tree in the field you should know about.

No one sees auras of people in the Other Place.

I know her Great Gradfather, Fred. He used to speak to her when she was a kid. She used to run around, gathering rocks and listenin’ to wild flowers.

She’d say, Fred, Where are my secret stones? And he’s say, In the barn, or,

Under the horse with two white hocks.

You probably think I’m bullshittin’ you.

But what you should understand is what most of the scientists already know. Time isn’t what you think it is. And space has its own desires no one talks about.

The girl thinks she’s lost somethin’. So she sticks notes in her pocket.

One says, I am nothing but dust and ashes.

The other says, For me, the world was created.

She thinks this will help. Nothin’ but faith helps. Even when you’re standin’ there, lookin’ at the ground, ready to dig your bones into the concrete. Ready to tell the next stranger who asks if you’re alright that, No, in fact, you’re lookin’ for death, where’d it drop, can you see it?

Listenin’ to Muddy Waters helps. Dancin’ all night helps. But unless you got a spirit willin’ to go into a cave, listen to itself tongue and all, you’re missing somethin’.

I’m the girl with no-face. I live in the Other Place. Most of the time, I dig my nails into the sky, sit back, and wait to be dropped down to This Place.

You know that Joyce character? He tried to get to the Other Place by takin’ the stream and running with it. Puttin’ the water in his mouth and lettin’ it come up with whatever fish he’d find there.

The Other Fish, from the Other Place, are magical. They understand that space has it’s own desires no one talks about. And Great Grandfathers can come to This place, long after leaving.

You ever lie in bed and think, If I don’t move, if I stay real still, I might just float away? I might just find happiness and forget the noise and the men who don’t know what’s goin’ on inside me?

She does that. And I tell her to. I listen to her.

Like I said, she used to say, Fred, where are my secret stones? And he’d say, By the tree, or, Under the horse with two white hocks.

She doesn’t remember this. She’s older. She can’t see auras anymore.

So I send her the little girl with stars in her skirt. What she means is, The Book of Life is hemmed to what you can’t see.

I know you don’t listen, sometimes, to what’s goin’ on inside you.

And this builds walls, tall enough to keep out Great Grandfathers and fish from the Other Place.

So what do you do? You get on with things. You build homes. Take care of plants, what have you. Sometimes you find yourself drunk, fallin’ into side walks, laughing at the shape your body makes.

You live in This Place, but the Other Place is here, too.

The girl, she rips pages off of trees. Tries to eat them. Thinks they’ll tell her somethin’.

You know how you lie next to someone and their body is there, but they aren’t. Maybe they’re sleepin’, or thinkin’ of someone else. You know how loneliness feels?

But what you don’t know is, space has its own desires no one talks about.

You know that Joyce character? He used to look at his daughter and think, Where’s the door? I don’t know what’s goin’ on in there.

What I mean is, there’s things goin’ on inside you that you don’t know about. And the Other Place tries to get in. But you won’t let it.

Listenin’ to Muddy Waters helps. Takin’ yourself apart is helps.

She thinks, That’s what I have inside me—hip bones.

So I send her visions of the man by the East gate.

What about fear?

Fear either drives you deeper into the waters of the Other Place, out of This Place and into what’s hidden, or it keeps you lookin’ at cement, feelin’ like death.

Like death has a doorway, or somethin’.

The man by the East gate? He looks for signs, too. And the little girl? She’s got stars you can’t see.

I’m the girl with no-face. I live in the Other Place.

So I send her visions. Sometimes she tries to eat them. What’s goin’ on inside her—

*

If I was to take apart this minute, it feels like a circling back. I know I talk about the way things bend. The writing hasn’t been

Frequent.

Neither have the visions.

Last night, I saw an opossum. I wanted to tell it, Speak. A friend of mine was sitting next to me. We talked about dreams..

Nothing to note from the man by he East gate. Or the little girl. Though I did dream there was a little me in a field I should know about. A boy made of light. We were playing toward something in the middle. And then a door. I checked to see if there was a tree

With a rabbits ear nailed to the side.

If I was to take apart this minute, it feels like a circling back. The wind is blowing through the windows, telling me to listen.

Frequent.

The opossum showed up again. I wanted to say, Speak.

Showed someone my piece about the stables, with the orange light coming through, and the man pointing to the sun, saying, THAT.

Sometimes it feels the people who write are off in a field I should know about, waiting for me to return.

This minute—if I was to take it

Apart. I remember Muddy Waters, and he came on the earphones this afternoon.
He told me to keep myself close to the ground. That’s what I have—hip bones.

I wonder if the man by the East gate wants to taste the little girl, her stars or, wherever he believes his visions come from.

I wonder if I am actually going from one side to another. And none of this is real.

Not once have I thought about auras today. Except now, in this minute, taken apart.

The weight on my forehead again. But I tell myself this means nothing.

The opossum says he thinks otherwise.

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