i make a list of the places i want to go.
japan.
amsterdam.
a field.
a volcano.
a river.
the bermuda triangle.
the mountains.
iceland.
space.
a large cave.

i read it to the man lying next to me after he tells me about prison.
i consider adding solitary confinement, but i’m pretty sure i would die there, so i resolve to save it for last.
but because the list is incomplete it would be premature to add it anywhere yet.

his name is miles. he tells me about when he was in prison and the way he meditates for hours.
he tells me to remember to breathe because if i forget, the oxygen won’t reach my brain and i won’t feel my body.
he recommends that i lie down flat with no pillows and my knees up and my feet flat.
miles lies limp and calm.
i lie limpid.

when you are several shadows against the gate you must be seeing your selves all crowding around.
you can invite yourself to congregate when the lighting is dim.
one is sweetly curious, one is bitter. one is sober. one is decent. one is glib.

i wrote a while back about someone who told me that you can never be alone because you would be alone with the alone.
but that cannot be true because when you are alone you are alone with your selves, so you are not alone, which means that you are alone.

tonight i am talking to rick, who tells me, hey, you’re too pretty to be sad.
i know he is talking to me because there is no one else around, but i ask, me?
he smiles. don’t be a stranger, he says.

rick is from lisbon and he works twelve hour shifts in manhattan every day. 
he says i should sneak into his office because the rooms are soundproof.
brandon tells me i should be older, and closer.
sam buys me chai tea and holds my bags for me. we play chess together. he’s moving to tampa in march.
i think that is a poor life decision. i don’t like florida much. 
josh tells me that i am spooky. i meet him on his birthday. he is fascinated by the way i watch him because no one has looked him in the eyes in ages.
that makes me sad. people are afraid of the wrong things.
dan looks like young jesus. he is from what he calls the wasteland which is the world.

joseph is an egyptian nomad who is blacklisted in cairo. he’s a filmmaker. his voice is smooth and searching.
i tell him that last week a neuroscientist offered me $1800 for sex, which i politely declined. 
he is astonished. he gets upset about america, he prefers germany, he hates how commodified we are. 
i nod. he sighs. he asks me about the kinds of strangers i meet.
the first ones i think of are my selves, but i tell him about the others. he tells me about the places he’s lived.
prague. 
california.
berlin.

he tells me i should come with him when he goes back to berlin. 
that sounds nice, but i check my list. berlin is not there. 
maybe i can fit it in between iceland and space. 

before we even see each other joseph asks if he can see me a second time. he just arrived in harlem today.
i tell him that i’m flattered but i know he will be leaving new york in a month and even he doesn’t know where he is going.
it gets too complicated, i say. isn’t once enough?
he understands, but he is a writer, and a filmmaker. he likes to collect people cinematically, as stories that he will maybe one day enter into one of his festivals.
i do that too, but i realize that joseph treats strangers as friends, whereas i treat friends as strangers.
it is not something i mean to do.
it’s just that i am alone in myself. 
i make a list of what i want to be.
wise.
understanding.
patient.
genuine. 
intuitive.
synthesized.

maybe when i’m joseph’s age i will have no strangers.
but today i am rived and immodest, unpeopled, just passing through.

x bren