The Zapatista phrase, scary in its inclusive premise that outcomes are to be determined, and then determined again by selves insistent on listening to each other, to the group, modulates my pace down quiet morning streets.

My body knew it first, that old rheumatic throbbing the tell, like a hangover when you haven’t been drinking - it would storm later in the glass cube filled with desks. I found the grey cashmere sweater I save for such occasions, unearthed creamy pearls from the wooden jewelry box, applied a neutral lipstick, for all clothes are costumes to me and sometimes it helps to appear a classic female illusion of normalcy.

The cycles grow shorter over time, my tolerance lowered with each indignity, each trivial moment that transparency is classified a radical act. The only true constant is the velocity of the universe, at times slyly and when necessary forcibly escorting you out of the building and into the rest of your life. Once glimpsed, the new next cannot be unseen, its nearness a marker as you measure the inevitable exit.

This is why we hug each other when we first meet, and why our people know the airports so well. We find ways to collect payment on strategic escape, our work the articulation of the larger truths we pay allegiance to as others watch us go sideways. There are morning negotiations with the heaviness, and those far more successful than I at it have children that wake them, and partners breathing beside them as they deliberate.

I forgot it once, tried to cross back into the comfort of an old life. A friend who is good with verbs admonished me; “Jettison the property! Pack the lamps!” So I hired an agent, and the house sold in four days as I drove down a coastline to a city I had seen once.

Wrap them as I will, the nets cannot hold me.