by Melanie Janisse Those ted shoes I bought in a strange thrift store beside a Value Village in the flat empty of Richmond. The almost outside of the city, still in the void of empty shell urban. Square shells of mate- rials masking the terror of being in the center, thriving. Being on the outside, obscured. We were on our way outside the fortress of city. Outside the boundaries of our self inflicted terror. Mutually wit- nessed. Ben was wearing his brown sandals and light blue shorts. A tee shirt that hung limply off of his rounded shoulders. We were mak- ing a last minute stop at V.V. to get some camping pots. Last minute errands that tighten the brain before the freedom time. Wandering separately through the dusty aisles with flourescents looking at shitty aluminum pots to put on nails in our van. Halfassed. Hillbillies. It was our honeymoon. Our vacation. Driving down south in a small Dodge van with the dogs. A respite from the poverty of our understanding. The fear of pulsing. My bruised self that I now love because she, that once self, had the vision to buy those red shoes. Stop Ben. Please stop. Not another Thrift Shop. Please. Pleasepleaseplease. The darkness of resale. Windowless mountains of fabric that once were someones. The possibility of finding treasures amongst the outcast. Leonard Cohen’s queen, tiaraed by the ideas whirling like thorns out of my mind. Crowned by the stained the outoffashion the regalia of my poverty. The elevation of my own condition. The cool making of shameful choices. If you only just could belong. If you only could take your god given talents and make me proud. Lawschool. The briefcase I used to carry around, young. Highschool. Belong, girl. Amongst the garbage and the glitter. Artist. Word diviner. Witch. They were sitting on the top of a cardboard box filled with other cheap thongs from China. Somehow the whole lot of them had found their way Over Here from the horrid factory they were made in. Someone thought they would make a profit. Someone thought them into this existence. They didn’t sell. Wound up here, given up on. Boxed. I slip them on in front of the Indian ladies standing. Musky smelled and almonds. Watchers. I say nothing as I look down at my own legs, too, too white. At my feet esconsced in cheap red velvet of thong. I’m a dumb asshole, I think. How much. A single slender finger of yellow gold and toffee. One dol- lar. OSE Ben is already outside in the van on his journey of impa- tience. I can see the dogs bobbing up and down in the recesses of the van. Shiny and prepared. The plastic recycled shopping bag I carry is evidence of my dirty secret. An emblem of my poverty. The first time I wore them was in Louisiana. Thousands of miles later. Washington. Oregon. Utah. Colorado. New Mexico. Texas. The geography of experience. Light years ahead in August. Magnolias screaming out to the heat with scent. Flying cockroaches, lazy. My own sweat teasing out the horrors of existing sometimes. I wore them the day I walked from Tyson’s house near the Mississippi. To Desire Street. They gave me a painful rash which splattered across the whiteness on the top of my foot. Angry red hidden by red velvet. Itchy sore and humid. Walking barefoot along the notorious streets of the Ninth Ward. Those red shoes clutched at my side. The restless sleeping of Louisiana in August. The heat of husbands and home and weeping willow trees and Maria playing the accordion in the middle of their near empty shotgun house. I felt unable to breathe. The heat rashed my face on the dark eyed side. Brown and red and boiled. Blue and white and smooth. A face divided by the extravagance of personalities. A warzone of identity. Those red shoes, forgotten. Insignificant red dashes of idiocy packed away on a Mississippi night. Embarrassment. Frivolous. KkKKK They sat in my closet. During the time of my marriage. Cobwebbed. Doghair. Far back. It wasn’t until my emergence that I remembered them. And then they slipped onto my feet like they were the only thing. They moved me across the terrain of my new emer- gence. Lesson learned. Open. Emblems of my spiritual movement. Deified. Sweat stained. Footprinted. And here they are as I look at them, having traversed. Traveled some. I trace sand patterns under my finger and stare at the vast- ness of this place. Vastness articulated as horizon line and receding beach. I bring myself to lonely places like this Long Beach to com- municate to myself over the distance of my forgetting. I have been avoiding myself for so many lifetimes that there is a crushing feeling to my breathing as I take it all in. Sadness. I breathe it in familiar. Weight. It engulfs me as I stare at my red thongs on my sandy feet. Exclamation marks in the endless of sandscape. The red shoes blare out from a palate of grays. Slate colored sky. Surf. I huddle around the warmth of red velour and bamboo in a landscape of lonely. The thongs of my indepen- dence. They have sailed like boats across the terrain of my emergence. A feeling comes in waves out of my chest. Remembering far back into the husband times. Child bride with bound feet of my own making. Lonely outcast in a terrible, unfriendly sea of my own imagining. Husband buoy. Solid body of sureness. I was sure that he had loved me hiding shyly behind unfortunate genius. Eyeglass frames and unruliness. Intensity masking the Great Terror. Ben. Far behind in a place made of fog that makes me dizzy. Unsure. Steel gray and impressionable. I told him all of the writhing secrets of my universe and he surrounded my horror with feathers of comfort. Keeping feathers. That are now seasoned salty with the tears of my lessons. Such a tender prison and there I stayed. Husband he was. Protector. Cooker of beans in our long tired pover- ty. The smell I used to hate- black beans simmering in epazota- now wraps me in a melancholy warm. Sleeping man. Angry giant. We became what we now are from a together time. From two lonely voids dotting the universe of our small town to independent constellations in the west. Over the Pacific. Feathers comforting me as I struggled with my aliveness. Giant who carried me over water. But for the grace of God there go I. But for the grace of God there go I. Through bruised places. Towards the end. I look around at my dogs running in the surf. At quiet peo- ple looking at the ocean. Children cupping it in their hands, salty. Swimsuits flagrant dashes of color. Orange. Neon green. The beau- ty of life’s details overwhelm me in gratitude. I need nothing now but to mine my depths. I pick up a rock and hold it cold in my hand. Green. Holy rocks laid across the mantel place of my marriage. Feathers. Film canisters full of sand. Egypt. Africa. Israel. His talesins that have taught me the simplicity of belief. My dogs run over and run rings around my memories. Salt water spray and mud. Yelling, barking up with you! up! up! Me run- ning towards the ocean. Laughing. Those red shoes lay where they cked off. Loved. Never forgotten. This woman ocean wet. Dog loved. Water and fur and joy mixed with warmth. I celebrate my alive- ness and my journey back from the depths of longing. Those red shoes. Talesins of my journey into the light. influx - Magazine April 1999 4| by Melanie Janisse Those red shocs I bought in a strange thrift toe beside & Value Vilage in the flat empry of Richmond. ‘The almost outside of the city stil inthe void of empty shell urban. Square shells of mae ‘nls masking the tereor of being in the center, thriving. Being on the ‘utede, abecured. We were on our way ouside the fortress of city ‘Outside the boundaries of ourself inflicted teror. Mutually wit ‘ested. Ben was wearing hs brown sandals and light blue shorts A tee shire that hung imply off of his rounded shoulders, We were mak ‘rand that tighten the brain before the ffeedomn rime. Wandering Separately through the dusty aisles with flourescent looking at sity pots to put on nals in our van, Halfased. Hillis, Tear otr honeymoon. Our vacation. Driving down south in small Doge van wit the dog. ‘understanding. ‘The fear of pulsing because sh, that once sel had the vikion to Buy hovered shoes ‘Stop Ben, Please sop. My bruised set that I now love The darkness of reale, Windowless mountains of fabric that once were someones. The possibly of finding treasures amongst the outst. Leonard Caen’s qusen arad by the ideas whiling Uke thors out of my mind. Crowned by the stained the outoffachion the regalia of my povery. ‘The elevation of my own condition. The cool making of shamefl choices. Ifyou only just could Belong. Ifyou o ‘could take your god given talents and make me proud. Lavschool The briefete I used to carry around, young. Highschool. Belong, fir, Amongst the garbage and the giver, Artist, Word divine. With SS Sear ee ee Someone thought they w ke a profit, Someone thought th thong. Fm a dumb assole, : Ben is alteady outside inthe van on his journey of pe tiene, can sce the dogs bobbing up and down inthe recesses ofthe van. Shiy and prepared. ‘The plastic recycled shopping bag I exty is evidence of my dity secret. An emblem of my poverty Tc Reg ete ore tno wed ws Lecce Treo ek miles later. Washington. Oregon, Utah, ‘Colorado, New Mexico Texas. The geography of experience ahead in August Magnolias screaming out tothe hes ockroathes lazy My own sweat teasing out the b To Desite Sweet. They gave me a painful rash which splattered across the whiteness onthe top of my fot. Angry red hidden by red velvet. Ttchy sore and humid. Walking barefoot along the notorious streets of the Ninth Ward. Those re shoes clutched st my side. ‘The restless sleeping of Louisiana in August The heat of husbands and home and weeping willow ees and Mara playing the accordion inthe middle of ter near eeptyshotgin house. I fle uae to breathe. The heat face onthe dark eyed side. Brown and red and boiled. face divided by the extravagance of personalities. A warzone of Wentiy. "Those red set forgonen Insignificant red dashes of idiocy packed away on a Misisspp night Embarrassment. Frivolous rors of existing vometimes. 1 They sat in my closet. Dring the time of my marriage. ‘Cobwebbed. Doghar. Far bck Ir wasa' until my emergence that T membered them. And then they slipped onto my fet ike they were sence. Lesson learned. Open. Emblems of my spiritual moveme Slate colored sky. Surf. T huddle around the warmth of rd velour and bamboo in a landscape of lonely, “The thongs of my indepen dence, They have sailed ike boats acrors the terrain of my emergence, A fecing comes in waves out of my chest. Remembering far back ito the husband times. Child bride with bound fet of my own making Hiusband buoy. Solid body of surenes. 1 was sure that he had loved Intensity masking the Great Teror Ben. Far behind in a place made of fog that makes me Unsure. Steel gray and impressionable. old allo the writhing secrets of my universe and he surrounded my horror with with the tears ofmy lessons. Such a tender prison and there I stayed, Tiber wast Protector. Cooker of beara in ox longed pore ‘9. The smell I used to hat- black beans simmering in epazts- now traps me in a melancholy warm. Sleeping man. Angry gant. We became what we now are from a together ime. From two lonely voids dotting the universe of our small own to independent consteltions swith my alivenes. Giant who carried me over water. But forthe grace ‘of God there go I. But for the grace of God there go I. Through bruised places, Towards the end Took around at my dogs running inthe suf. At quiet peo- ‘Swimauts Magrant dashes of color. Orange. Neon green, The bea © s F influx® Magazine April1999 41