She is grounded. She does not want to run away from home. She likes the stories that litter the train tracks, the shiny sediments of elsewhere. She collects them. Once, a man carrying a sack offered her money. She turned down the money and asked to look into his sack. The glimpse was reward enough. She is not impractical. She reveres the sacred in things. She would not describe it like that. All she knows is that every so often it is possible to see a glimmer of more.
She describes herself as simple. Elsewhere, she might drive a certain kind of man to lust.
This is a story about elsewhere. It can only take place there.
She is grounded. She grows upwards. She has aerial roots. There is clinging, sometimes with strength. Sediments collect at her base. She has no filters. It is passing through. She will soon have been passed. She has sacking. It will be about practice. If a black finger were to point upwards. She has been charring. There will be worshipping. She caresses aerial roots and erections. She likes the name Helga. It sounds comforting, better than Mary Poppins, which has always irritated with its supposed chirpiness. Books are made into movies. Helga is such a solid name. A downward growing root, impervious to sediment, if occasionally encased in black leather. Like a black finger.
Does encased make sense without sausages and pillows? Sometimes, when leaping from stone to stone, you get tired and want to rest on mossy instability.
*Obvious debts to Gertrude Stein, Angeline Weld Grimke, and Nella Larsen.