we never end the night on good terms

so close we were tonight

but then I was back to being the broken one who needs more therapy

so I pull the curtain

on my brokenness

and into my shell of invisibility

Something broke inside

and my writing died

a thousand silent deaths.

Like moons covered over

by clouds in the violet night.

Something died inside

and my poetry cried

a thousand violent screams.

Like waves crashing violently

into a jagged rocky shore.

Something woke inside

as my heart tries

to fly again, passion renewed.

Like fires igniting an engine

in a rocket waiting to explode.

Schwenksville, a borough in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, United States founded in 1684 when Lenni-Lenape Indians ceded to William Penn land along Perkiomen Creek, and named for George Schwenk, whose son, Jacob Schwenk (a hunch of mine - perchance they indubitably lent an air of being swank), served in George Washington's army. The year 1903 represents the date this sliver rush, quintessentially perky ohm man, oblong necklaced mineral lode, kindled jeweled, ideal heavenly gussied, fabled enclave incorporated with sparse population.

The number of inhabitants would balloon to 1,385 residents at 2010 census. This township (most notable for emcee Gene Shay hosting the Philadelphia Folk Festival, which initial impromptu music tete a tete attracted a meager number of outdoor attendees in 1962) at that time considered the boondocks flush which rivaled Styx. Resemblance to notions of small scale Arcadia, book colic dreamy eclectic floral backdrop found this town as inspiration for the protagonist in Catherine Gilbert Murdock's novel Dairy Queen (2006).

Also of note (not tibia cleft out asper this leg end), the Hall & Oates song "Perkiomen" was written about the Perkiomen Creek, which constitutes Schwenksville's eastern boundary. "Perkiomen" is Lenape for "muddy waters", and "where the cranberries grow."

Another bragging right claimed by this burr rowed keynote nook, Schwenksville serves as gateway to the little traversed Perkiomen Trail, a nineteen-mile section formerly Reading Railroad's Perkiomen Valley corridor. This tract serves resplendently quieting psychological oppression, natural multi purpose railing toot trailing completed in 2003.

Now imagine (simply for the purpose of visualization exercise) reclining on a state of the art chaise lounge, (whereby hindsight glommed fictitiously, easily dozing, cozily being affixed), withal an arboreal bonanza dollop of terrestrial real estate named Schwenksville.

Though stationary, the entire oblate spheroid doth jet (to keep up with Joan's Blackhearts) traveling at greased lightning speed. Gravitational force stimulating inertia keeps Aerospace hangar neutralized by diametrically opposed centrifugal and centripetal countervailing Kixx yielding Earthling safely bound to virtual tarmac). Simultaneously fueling Dan Joes maintain keeping waft, weft warp wings at the speed of sound solidly secure.

Back centuries ago, and as of this scrawling spiel, the bucolic terra firmae impressed on maps sans Schwenksville (located 40°15′23″N 75°27′54″W (40.256418, -75.465012)) ushers safe, security guard did Loch haven heavily protected by Black Crows, Flock Of Seagull, and Eagles surreptitiously situated to search and rescue any nomadic Beatle browed Goo Goo doll, who accidentally trips over Rolling Stones, thence inadvertantly emulates a Tumblr pitching (with accompanying Talking Heads) into a bloody pitfalls, which nightmarish female bred biological scenario asper Indigo Girls, Lady Gaga, and Blondie menstruating at the same time, which far supasses any natural cataclysmic disaster.

Once again let me revisit thee Nirvana like circumstance alluded to in the above paragraph. Thus while idling away sands of time, one Moody Blue Foo Fighter without effort finds her/himself comfortably numb vis a vis peacefully sprawled on fold out cushioned contrivance.

The body, mind, and spirit triage plays a Cheap Trick in tandem with Earth, Wind and Fire invokes a fusion, whereby thee understudy linkedin as if gripped with an impetuous urge to meander as a Prince across the scant blocks mapped out as Schwenksville. If Monkeys could Traipse across wooded plain, an average Homo Sapiens would be able (with a cane to allow completing the walk at an easy gait), every square (round, triangular, uber vector) entire idyllic Paramour a reasonable task, particularly predicated (according to United States Census Bureau), whereby the borough's total area equals 0.4 square miles (1.0 km2); 0.4 square miles (1.0 km2) comprises land; 2.38% water.

Climate

Believe this chap an inordinate commoner of the Culture Club, (who spent most of his life within geographical area encompassing the titled place regarding this named vignette), the climate characterized by hazy, hot, humid summers and generally mild to cool winters. According to the KöppenClimate Classification system, Schwenksville has a humid subtropical climate, abbreviated "Cfa" on climate maps.

History

General George Washington, and “his” Continental Army camped within Schwenksville vicinity – September 26 to 29 and October 4 to 8, 1777 – prior to and immediately following October 4th Battle of Germantown. Washington's headquarters surmised to be stationed at The Henry Kelly House (since demolished), a southwest stretch of town, he called "Pawling's Mill." The bulk of the Army camped at PennypackerMills, and frequent took their meals at WAWA within Zieglerville, posthumously named after a member after a descendent from the band ZZ Top.

This storybook Borough (long the main topic de jure per this essay) originally affiliated with Perkiomen Township, I declare didst constitute first copper mine in Pennsylvania. Ice harvesting (a major industry in the area) boasted several large icehouses located along creek during brutally bone chilling winter. Ice (whereby solid state frozen river dynamited, cabled, hoisted then yanked by all the Kings horses and men) regularly got shipped chock a block to Philadelphia. Additional sundry mills dotting landscape used to cultivate grain, manufacture textiles also contributed prominent vitality.

Remnants of thriving industrial locus evident by crumbled ruins of extant historic structures. Such an ideal location along Perkiomen Creek established Borough as a popular summer resort during formative heyday existence. Schwenksville once home to such locally complex edifices as The Perkiomen Inn, Spring Mountain House, and Woodside Inn.

Home to the Schwenksville Union School District, the resilient prodigal noteworthy learned joined helm forging (a steely heavy metal) educational amalgamation with Perkiomen Joint School District to form Perkiomen Valley School District in 1969.

Today the Borough teems with diverse residential communities alive with (in addition to the sound of music) i.e. commercial and industrial businesses located along the Main Street corridor.

Schwenksville Elementary School; the Perkiomen Valley Branch of the Montgomery County-Norristown Public Library; the Schwenksville post office; two banks; three churches – Heidelberg United Church of Christ, Jerusalem Lutheran, and Eden Mennonite; and a 6.47 acre park along Perkiomen Creek are located within the Borough.

The Pennypacker Mansion and Sunrise Mill both listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

As of 2010 census, the borough represented 94.9% Caucasian, 2.5% Black or African American, 0.1% Native American, 0.7% Asian, 0.1% Native Hawaiian, and 1.4% were two or more races. I must not overlook the demographic Outlook that included 2.7% of population originating viz Hispanic or Latino ancestry.

Asper the 2000 census, there were 1,693 people, 626 households, and 326 families residing in the borough. The population density was 4,198.5 people per square mile (1,634.2/km2). There were 662 housing units at an average density of 1,641.7 per square mile (639.0/km2). The racial makeup of the borough was 94.21% White, 2.84% African American, 1.12% Asian, 0.06% Pacific Islander, 0.59% from other races, and 1.18% from two or more races. Hispanic or Latino race 2.13% rounded out remaining population.

Among 626 households 25.9% mollycoddle children under the age of 18 living, 38.0% claimed status sans married or couples living together, 9.7% admitted female householder with no husband present, and 47.8% described as non-families. These recent statistics revealed 40.1% of households showed single individuals, and 18.4% strove to manage single handedly alone 65 years of age or older.

The average household size equaled 2.13, and average family size hovered close 2.91 persons, which this chap surmises an occupant perchance missing a limb.

In 2000, 17.7% of population under years age of 18, with 26.5% from 18 to 24, 27.5% from 25 to 44, 15.2% from 45 to 64, and 13.1% who were 65 years of age or older. The median age pinpointed at 30 years. Each constituent 100 female aligned with 88.3 males. If extrapolated applying 100 females age 18 and over, there prevailed 85.2 males.

The median income for a household in the borough was $44,514, and median income for a family settled close to $55,000. Males had median income of $37,566 versus $31,200 for females. The per capita income for the borough totaled $19,679. About 3.3% of families and 5.4% of the population ranked below the poverty line, including 6.9% of those under age 18 and 12.2% of those age 65 or older.

Politics and government

Schwenksville approximates city manager form of government with a mayor and a five-member borough council. The year 2007 atypical, when Democrats took control of borough hall council for the first time in the borough's history. The Borough also counts Activity and Historical Committees. The goal of Activity Committee warrants to plan and support various community activities to promote a sense of vitality in the community.

Accordingly, Community Day was started in 2009 to promote businesses and non-profit

organizations in Schwenksville with a fun community event. Committee members may plan other events through the year as well. The Historic Committee was formed by the Borough for the purpose of exploring ways to save meaningful older buildings from being destroyed, and to keep the twelve point Roman Font rich textured history of Schwenksville intact for future generations.

The borough is part of the Thirteenth Congressional District (represented by Representative Allyson Schwartz), Pennsylvania's 147th Representative District (represented by Republican Bob Mensch) and 44th State Senate District (represented by Sen. John Rafferty, Jr.).

Municipal services include: trash, a volunteer fire department, and Parks & Recreation. This enclave offers access to Meadow (bring your own muffin) Park, which (pluperfect for picnic) pavilion provides relaxing spot for people to walk and fish in the bat till Creek. The Borough intends to further develop the Park by adding a walking path and other activities as funding and grant funding allow. The Perkiomen Trail also snakes thru Schwenksville borough, providing access to recreational activities along the Trail.

“Weird,” I stared at my hands, then back at the newly formed path. “Did I just… make that?”

No one answered. Nothing existed except me and the path and the void, if it could be called a void. It reminded me more of a blank page in a book. I started walking along the path, closing my eyes the further out I went. The white space started to hurt my brain. It was too empty, too full of nothing.

Too lonely.

A twig snapped under my feet on the path. My eyes flew open to find a beautiful forest and leaves falling around me. Sunlight trickled down through the autumn-colored canopy, the swirl of oranges, reds, and yellows almost glowing as they landed on the roof of a stone cottage. Despite not being made of wood, it seemed to grow out of the herculean redwood behind it. Smoke drifted from the chimney, disappearing as quickly as it came. Smooth tiles slanted down in a perfect roof, and the windows glinted in the available light. The most vibrant part of the cottage, however, was the dark burgundy door and the fox sitting in front of it.

I took a slight step back only to find the path gone. My bare feet hit leaf litter, and where it should’ve felt irritating or lifeless, like the grainy sand of the beach, it felt… comforting. For whatever reason, my mind created this place. The fox cocked its head at me as if asking why I was just standing there. If I could do anything, why was I afraid? Still, I couldn’t convince myself to move.

The fox, sensing my nervousness, approached me. It moved like a ghost, its footsteps whispering as it walked. It gently nudged my hand with its nose, another touch of warmth in an already warm world. Carefully, cautiously, I brushed my fingers through its soft, orange fur. It should’ve been rough, spiky, wild just like the fox was, yet like the leaves, it felt like home. I followed it this time, going up the steps and opening the door to the cottage.

If the outside was a fantasy, inside was a dream. Tree branches spiraled high above on the ceiling, rooting the cottage to the land. A small iron stove and oven found their places on the wall next to shelves of grain, spices, herbs, tea. A wooden table and two chairs were right in the middle, inviting anyone to sit down and relax. At the other end, thick tree branches that had curled around the ceiling now hugged the walls, holding an array of books, thick and thin, old and new. Just below the natural bookshelves lay a bed, soft and cozy and just as inviting as the table.

I quietly closed the door behind me and approached the bed, suddenly feeling light-headed and exhausted. The autumn-colored quilt was even softer than it looked, and I climbed in, savoring the warmth, the safety. The fox stood to the side, watching me for a moment before leaving out of a smaller door near the chimney area, back outside. Alone once again, I decided to sleep. I did not dream.

I woke up the next day to the smell of freshly baked bread and coffee. Stretching, I walked over to the table to find the fox standing there again, watching me as I sat down. A mug of warm coffee cooled on the side, and next to it, fresh coffee beans. The plate in front of me had two slices of whole wheat sourdough, baked and buttered to perfection. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate anything. Picking up a slice, I bit into it, closing my eyes as the flavors took over. It was such a simple combination, and yet simple things are often the most comforting.

Who taught me that?

I stopped chewing. A million questions ran through my head, blocking everything else. How long had I been wandering in the void before I created this? Had there been anything before the beach, before the blank canvas that was now my reality? How did I know this would be the perfect meal for me? Why couldn’t I remember anyone’s face from my past? Did I even have a past?

The fox was staring again when I glanced up at it.

“Why did I make you?” I asked, hoping that I could get some sort of sign, an answer in a sea of questions. It tilted its head to the side, unable to say anything.

“If this is my reality, why won’t you talk?” I put my slice down. “Everything has been exactly as I imagined except for you. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Still, it did not answer. I took a step toward it, and as I did, the fox finally broke its stance. Suddenly nervous, it hopped onto the table, tipping over the coffee beans -in the process. Something in my expression must have scared it even more because, after a final glance up at me, the fox ran out its door again, leaving me alone with a mess to clean up.

Sighing, I got to my knees and started to pick up the grounds, the smell of coffee wafting around me. Stains spread on my hands and got under my nails. A few of the beans got stuck between the floorboards. I dug my fingers in, trying to get one out when the floorboard moved. The bean dropped down and I heard a hollow sound as if there was a compartment below. Curious, I tugged at the floorboard until it gave way, the nails ripping out and the wood splintering. There was a compartment, and the bean had landed right on top of a book. I reached down and took it in my hands. After blowing the dust off the cover, I read the title:

The Girl and the Vixen.

The picture below was of me and… a red-haired girl. Not just any girl; one I knew. One whose curls I’d brushed, one whose freckles I’d counted like stars, one whose eyes – green eyes – I’d stare into for hours. I knew her name, had it on the tip of my tongue, had it in the deep crevices of my mind full of memories that I hadn’t been able to conjure since I got here. Why couldn’t I remember her name? I knew everything else, even Vesper’s love of coffee –

Vesper.

I flipped through the pages, desperate for more, craving my story, the memories I lost. Every word brought up another piece, and as I kept reading, the whole picture built itself in my mind.

I found her in a gallery, surrounded by portraits and sculptures and paintings, staring at a larger-than-life ocean. Every brushstroke and every color culminated in the illustration of a turbulent and angry sea, witnessed only by the moon and two stars by its side. She wore a sweater the same blue as the ocean, and a lighter blue scarf hung on her neck. Her hair was like fire on water – untamed and beautiful – a cascade that only just covered a face full of freckles. I’d gone up to her to ask for her name, her number, and the type of coffee she held in her right hand. Smiling, she gave me all three, and that taste of coffee would linger until we met again.

Dinner, candlelit and classy. This time she wore a black dress and I wore a green one. Both of us had chosen gold hoop earrings and a necklace to match. I learned she was an artist herself as we sipped red wine and ate pasta smothered in pesto and parmesan and topped with grilled chicken. I told her I was an aspiring writer, working a day job while I worked on my manuscript. She asked if I could show her some time. Only if you show me your work, I’d said.

I went to her home; she came to mine. Back and forth, a pattern emerged, a new rhythm. Lunch meant going to my run-down place after. Dinner meant going over to her studio apartment and falling asleep. Slowly, my toothbrush, my clothes, my journal moved with me. Her kitchen became our kitchen. Her room became our room. Her place became our place.

Vesper breathed life into me. I went out with her to art shows and picnics and coffee dates. I spoke my mind and listened to her voice as she listened to mine. My writing blossomed, words flowing in my mind and out onto the page. Countless poems detailing that hair, those freckles, those green eyes filled the journal. Short, everyday stories reflected the kindness, the intelligence, the confidence she embodied so effortlessly. As I wrote about her, she made art about me. She hid it from me, locking her creative space away, telling me it wasn’t ready. All I got were clues: orange and red paint and canvases stacked against the walls.

One day, she made me wear a blindfold and took my hands to guide me. I kept asking when I could look, only hearing soft laughs and whispered no’s until she shut the door behind us. Vesper untied the blindfold.

A forest, orange and red and yellow, was laid out on the canvas. A single redwood sat in the center, and just in front of it, a stone cottage. If I looked closely, I saw the two figures in the window, sharing a kiss, hidden away in a beautiful fantasy, a wonderland.

“Vesper, it’s breathtaking,” I could hardly speak, overwhelmed. “What did you name it?”

“‘Our Future,’” She smiled at me. “It’s our future, Farah.”

The memories after that could not be pieced together. Something had gone wrong. Something had taken Vesper away and trapped me here. All I remembered was a twisted shadow rising, swallowing her in darkness, and leaving me stranded on a beach. With no memory and no purpose, I had walked aimlessly for who knows how long.

I only woke up when that man tried to hand me that cup of coffee.

The fox had returned and was staring again. Instead of a wild spirit, I only found sadness. There were no pages left in the book, nothing to tell me what happened next, only what happened before. But I didn’t need that to know why the fox was here now, the vixen.

When I blinked, she was there, beautiful as the day I’d met her. She wore that same blue sweater, the same scarf, but a new smile, a grateful one. I reached out to her, this ethereal figment of my imagination that I could bring to life if I wanted. I could kiss her, hold her, be with her in the future we always wanted.

But it wouldn’t be real.

At that thought, Vesper, the coffee, the cottage, and the forest all fell away, revealing the white void underneath. I was alone in a prison with no idea who put me there and no idea how to get out and no idea how to get to Vesper. All that remained was me, the book, and a pen. The book was still opened to the blank page, the unfinished story.

Unfinished…

This wasn’t over, was it? I had power here – a power I only realized when coffee woke me up again. If I could create worlds in here, where was the limit?

After hesitating, I took the pen and wrote my name, Farah, in the book. The ink stuck for a second just before sinking into the pages. I kept writing, words flowing as I once again remembered Vesper, knowing that nothing would take her from my mind again. All the words sunk. They had to have power, I knew they did. I knew I had power, more than I ever could've imagined if I succeeded now.

After a few moments, words appeared on the page, ones I’d heard before when I came back to myself.

"Show us, then."

Taking a deep breath, I stood up and stared at the empty space in front of me. I reached out and touched the edge of the void, feeling it between my fingers. Rather than air, it was now paper, soft and delicate as a newly made book. My book. My story. Our story.

I took a deep breath and ripped my world open.

Caroline hated school. Every bit of it; science, math and civics.

It was a fast walk down a slow road that brought her to The House. Prostitution really and truly began for Caroline when she was sixteen, back when she and Leslie were sneaking into bars to see “Rattler,” their favorite local rock band, or maybe even before that, when they were getting high and listening to Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd on Leslie’s brother’s turntable and Caroline was pocketing loose change for smokes off the top of his dresser when Leslie wasn’t looking. Regardless of the exact moment it happened, it was Leslie who showed Caroline how easy it was to get into the bars where Rattler was playing, even while underage. It was testosterone fueled men collecting cover charges and checking ID’s against the likes of these two youthful hotties, so it really didn’t take much. A smile, a nod, a wink, perhaps a quick favor, and like the wave of a magic wand “Besto-Presto… where can a girl not go when a mere man blocks her path?

After so many shows Ratto, Rattler’s lead singer, finally noticed the stage-side pair, so they screwed him together in the tour bus out behind the bar, which was both less scary and more fun, doing it together. That it happened while they were hammered was funner still, and then Ratto turned them on to cocaine for the first time afterward. The next weekend she and Leslie were there again of course, front row, and saw Ratto pointing them out to Kenny D, the “Rattler” bassist, who treated them to more of the same, only with crack this time, so they started hanging around the bus both before and after shows, becoming low level “groupies” if you will. As such they were passed between the band members on weekend nights until the enjoyment of them ran out and new girls were picked from the crowd, leaving Caroline and Leslie left out; alone and hooked. Once hooked there were really only two options for the girls; find a junkie with access to the drugs they needed and join up with him in his shit lifestyle, or go out on their own in search of what they needed. Leslie chose the first path. Caroline watched as her friend was handed around from dealer to dealer by the asshole, sucking them off for a bump when the couple was too broke to pay until Caroline finally concluded, “why share?”

Out on her own at nineteen Caroline learned that it was not the tricks to be feared, nor the drugs, nor the hunger. It was the streets themselves, the ghostly wandering; house-to-house, room-to-room, into backseats, public restrooms, truck cabs and alleyways alone. Alone together that is, with some acquaintance or stranger who was always bigger and stronger, with every one of them demanding more of you than you’ve already given, always more. But when everything is already in the ante, what more is there to bet? She could never be sure of what she would find in those places, or in that person she was alone with there, doing literally anything they demanded of her for fifty fucking bucks, or sometimes twenty-five, or even ten. And worse, to wake up in a drugged haze without remembering, with only lingering pain to let you know that anything had happened at all, and still nowhere safe to go, no home to return to.

Caroline quickly discovered that life was not all fun and games, that there were some places she had to go where she absolutely didn’t want to be. So much for Besto-Presto.

It was that lonely search for what she needed that initially brought Caroline here, as those with commonalities tend to attract, and congregate. What she thought of as “The House” was over on Tyler Street, two blocks east of the city center at the very end of a row of Victorian-styled two stories which had somehow survived the wrecking ball. Tyler Street had long since been re-zoned for business, so its row of antique houses functioned mostly now as law offices, or insurance agencies rather than as dwellings. Every house but the one on the very end of the street had shingles hung denoting their current purposes’, but that last one needed no shingle, as in the daytime a coterie of young women used its veranda to escape The House’s inner, unmoderated stuffiness, and in so doing sufficiently advertised its’ object. But it was after sundown when the business of that house became even more obvious, for as every other enterprise along the street darkened and locked up, that one came alive, it’s brightly lit bottom floor off-setting it’s blacked-out upper windows, that and an increased volume of mostly male customer traffic, some of it merely walking up from the neighboring houses (which were of course businesses), as wives had been telephoned on lunch breaks and pre-warned that “working late” might be necessary tonight, so go ahead and forgo dinner. “I’ll get something out,” they told them. And that is exactly what they did.

The House, having originally been built to satisfy the traditionally nuclear family in an age prior to birth control, was large, as large families had been the norm in its day. There were five “bedrooms” inside, that is to say rooms which had been built and designated for that purpose. More lately three other rooms, a nursery, etc., had been converted into bedrooms simply by adding beds to them. Some of those converted rooms actually had to be passed through to get to the other bedrooms, which led to many awkward and embarrassing moments in The House’s present function. The biggest, nicest of these bedrooms belonged to Lacey Slocum, it having been bequeathed fairly to her through the dominance of her status; that dominance having been derived from her tenure in The House, her popularity with it’s clientele, and in no small part to her unrivaled (at least amongst the other girls) malevolent viciousness. While many had fucked Lacey Slocum during her time in The House, Caroline had seen nobody, but nobody fuck with Lacey Slocum.

The other rooms were also parceled out by status, the preferred ones given to the most requested, or to those whom Lacey decided should have them, usually to those most compliant to her. It was assumed by Caroline and the other girls, as Lacey had already been installed in her hierarchal position when each of them arrived, that Lacey owned the property, though that was not the case. The House was actually owned by a shadow man, a man who went unrecognized by any but Lacey when he showed up to inspect his investment. It was he who provided for maintenance on The House, and who paid the bills, and whom Lacey immediately jumped for at his appearance without asking how high, as she was no dummy. Lacey Slocum enjoyed her elevated position. She liked deciding which girls could stay, and which must go. Lacey had worked hard to attain her place in The House, and it was this man who both put her in her position and who allowed her to stay there, and it was he who provided Lacey with what she needed to run The House, conditionally of course, those conditions being easier to meet when done with an iron fist, which was Lacey Slocum’s preferred method anyhow.

Still, though not an ideal one, The House was definitively a society, a society being a space shared by two or more people for their mutual welfares. As such there were necessarily “house rules” to follow if one wished to remain in it. In fact, there were both written and unwritten rules. Firstly, to stay in The House required a signed contract which, while legally useless, at least provided both landlord and tenant with some semblance of situational control, or rights, if you’d rather, the contract allowing that in order to remain a member of The House’s protective society you would abide by it’s rules, the first and foremost of those rules being that you must contribute to it’s prosperity, in this case that meant 50% of earnings as stated, along with cultural and educational contributions when possible. 50% seemed like a lot, but in return the house offered the necessities which nearly any human life requires; food, shelter, community, safety, and most importantly… steady, fixed rate employment. Since moving in, Caroline not only had what she needed, she was actually getting ahead. But as with any other society, there were also consequences for those who broke these written rules. Those consequences themselves were not written, but were understood, and were at best violent, and at worst evictive. As harsh as that might seem those written rules laid the groundwork for order, a thing which few engaged in this line of work were likely to find anywhere other than a penitentiary, while also being a thing which every person without it instinctively longs for. If eviction does not seem to you like much of a punishment, then you are reading from a place of privilege and can have no understanding of the importance of order for a young girl alone and destitute on the streets, a girl whose life is “survived” more than “lived” in the endless chaos which comes from feeling like the lowest rung on the human ladder, “fucked” that is, floundering at the complete and utter bottom, her life and well-being at the mercy of every single person or persons she happens upon, not to mention the destructive hazards and elements of the natural world itself; weather, temperature, disease, and hunger. Caroline didn’t ask to be a prostitute. She certainly never wanted to be one. She didn’t raise her hand in the third grade to proclaim a desire for it when the teacher asked the children what they wanted to be when they grew up. But as bad choices have equal consequence she found herself on that road, and The House provided the first, best, and only hope anyone had proffered to her as one… a prostitute, that is.

And Lacey Slocum was it’s Queen; beautiful (if hard-eyed and tight-mouthed), boldly sexy, sophisticated (or not, as occasion demanded), Lacy reined over what had begun as a weak democracy when she arrived, but what she, through strength, intrigue, and professional success, had turned into a benevolent tyranny. Lacey Slocum ruled the roost. The others cast their votes as they always had, but Lacey’s was the only vote in the final count, and none were foolish enough to question it. In The House’s small, dog-eat-dog world, it was Lacey who sported the longest fangs.

Still, The House offered community. Caroline found that being in a common group, having others to share your experiences with, and listening as those others shared even worse ones, the most disgusting and shameful experiences imaginable, was empowering. These girls were actually able to laugh about the ugliness they had encountered. Sharing their stories about the regular degenerates and monsters who frequented The House lifted all of the girls up until those men became even lower on morality’s ladder than they themselves were. In fact, the girls easily convinced themselves that all men, not just the ones who paid to fuck them, were beneath them, and though usually prone on the bottom, the girls’ common experiences with men’s perversities and fetishes elevated them on the moral plane up above men, and Caroline heartily bought into this theory. It was actually the men who sucked, philosophically speaking. Caroline was bought in, at least until those mornings when she woke up from a drug-hazed “date” in a twisted ball of sheets, semen, syringes, and vomit. In those moments she did not feel “above” anyone at all, but at least she had a place. Caroline was “home.” So long as she was in The House she had a room, her own space. Here were people who empathized, who would help her clean her mess up, who would help her clean herself up, after all... tomorrow it would likely be one of them. When the same thing had happened out there in the real world, Caroline had been on her own in her mess.

The term “working girl” is a misnomer. Although for some it could be lucrative, sex with strangers is many things, but it is hardly work, despite phrases like “hand job” and “blow job”, there was really nothing difficult at all about it. In fact, the less actual physical labor that Caroline did, the more she grew to detest it. She even half-assed the few chores assigned to her, and more than once suffered Lacey’s wrath for it. But fuck Lacey anyways. A few knocks to the head seemed preferable to cleaning toilets. Caroline detested the thought of work so much that once she’d been accepted into The House escape from it’s lazy lifestyle became undesirable, and too difficult to contemplate; getting “clean,” and getting a “real” job seemed almost ludicrous, though that did not stop her from sometimes pondering how she’d come to be here at all.

But that question was easily answered. When someone states a desire for the only thing you have left, any fool will take what they can get for it. Caroline certainly had, when she was down to nothing else. That is what you do when your body is all that is left. You sell it to eat, you sell it for warmth, you sell it for vanity, for pleasure, or for a high… and sometimes you sell it just because selling it is better than giving it away, yet regardless you sell it, and you feel thankful that you have it to sell, that someone even wants it. The shames of both the sale itself and the acts required of it quickly pass, and with no real reproach you do it again when the opportunity presents itself. From there, it is not long before you begin marketing yourself for those opportunities, dressing differently, walking differently, behaving differently, even thinking differently to justify those unseemly actions. You become caught in a cycle; fucking=money, money=drugs, drugs=broke. No fuck, no money, no high, no bueno.

Those thoughts naturally led Caroline to where she would be if not for The House, and to what she would do if she were evicted? But they were thoughts too dire for contemplation. She could not go back to the chaos of the streets. Not now. Besides, she told herself, it was always some other girl who grew too old, too sick, or too strung-out to be desirable, and thus useless to The House’s society. It would never happen to her, would it?

But the morning mirror never lies, does it? Those dark circles are hard to hide, and those scars from other nights, and other men, and dirty needles. The streets remain so close, right outside her window. And the addiction remains, always with her, a dark cloud looming above.

It was a common fear, eviction. Something the girls often brought up to one another out there on the veranda while fanning themselves from the Louisiana heat, at least when Lacey wasn’t around… what would they do when their turn came? But there were no good answers, so the topic seldom lingered, snuffed out until tomorrow when the question would likely be raised again, as it was the question every girl was concerned about.

Snuffed out right up until Caroline’s turn came. That day when there was a difference in Lacey’s eyes when they looked into hers, and an unfamiliar timber to her voice. That day when Caroline felt more than saw that the others had formed in a lioness-like circle around her, with she their prey, and they ready to pounce. And she knew how they felt, that they would willingly claw and kill so long as it was not them at the circle’s center. They would turn on her and swallow her up to stay in Lacey’s graces. Caroline knew because she had done it to others herself.

That day when anger didn’t help her, and tears couldn’t help, and there was nothing to do but to pack up her dirty drawers and go back there… to that coldest of places where fear and desperation, and the unknown awaited.

Every girl’s path here is different. Caroline had never asked for this life. She’d never even wanted it… but here she was again, cast out, alone on her chosen road.

I’ve had to completely reinvent myself 5 major times in my life.

Each was triggered by a major life event.

But now, I am evolving and changing constantly.

And let me be clear, there is a major difference between growing and evolving.

I’ve grown every single year of my life. But only evolved in a handful of them.

Evolution is now my permanent process and the focus of my life’s work.

As it should be for all of us.

Because becoming the best version of yourself doesn’t mean just growing your current identity.

It means evolving an entirely new one.

So all last year my entire focus was on letting go.

Letting go of the need for a static identity.

Letting go of the perception of control.

Letting go of my preferences.

Letting go of my hopes.

Letting go of my desires.

And I’m, more than anything, astounded that I’ve actually been able to do it.

I uprooted my entire life in the States to go find the London of Dickens. I wanted to live in the bustling 19th century neighborhood of Camden Town where merchants sold everything from sweet lavender to containers of chicken broth, right there on the streets. I wanted to meet the likes of Bob Cratchit and Mr. Fezziwig. I just figured that London would be frozen in time, and exist in the way the Charles Dickens had portrayed it (for better or for worse). Was I surprised when all I found was a normal city with cars honking, people rushing around, tourists gawking, and no tomfoolery afoot whatsoever. But then I saw him. I could swear I saw him. It was Tiny Tim, singing on the corner for money!

I watched from a distance. I watched him for a good long while. When it started to get dark, he collected his hat with the coins and cash that the passers by had offered, and he limped off with his crutch. I followed, of course. He turned the corner into an alley with no name, but it was filled with a haze of chimney smoke and a flickering glow from gas lanterns lining the street ahead. As soon as I turned into the alley to follow I could smell a foul stench. It was a mixture of burning oil and urine. When I got to the street with the lanterns, I could here shouts of people and the moans of beggars sitting on the cold cobblestone. The hum of electricity was gone, replaced by an eerie echo of voices that bounced off of the bricks buildings.

I was immediately accosted by a group of young boys. Tripped and pushed to the ground, every pocket rummaged, and a blunt blow to my head.

“Welcome to Camden Town, gov’na.” It was the last thing I heard before blacking out, and the last thing I saw was the mangy looking creature that hissed those words into my ear.

I woke up in a cold sweat in seat 28F.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. We’ve started our decent into London and the captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. The flight attendants will be around to collect any rubbage.”

I wasn’t sure if this was my version of being visited by three ghosts or if it was just a bad dream. Regardless, my stay in London was brief and limited to the confines of Heathrow airport. I had a change in plans. Maybe a trip to Steinbeck’s Monterey would be a little less stressful. Yes, cannery row might be just what I needed. I rubbed the welt on my head and headed to the reservation desk.

within hinterlands of Perkiomen Valley Pennsylvania

occurred January 6th promptly at noon.

Virgin whiteness blankets terrestrial realm

bajillion snowflakes tumble out of sky

atavistic fascination awakened

agog at ice crystals stinging each eye

while I strike open mouthed stance

relishing tasting frozen water molecules.

No matter yours truly witnessed

countless winter wonderlands

since completing lxiv orbitz round the sun,

the first major seasonal substantial accumulation

excites the little boy inside me.

Additionally, I feel truly humbled and enamored

when Mother Nature

singly and/or nsync with old man winter,

whether she (former)

looses propensity to wreak havoc

(think climatological, geological,

meteorological, et cetera phenomena)

or latter trumpets weather,

whereby landscape magically transformed

into blinding brilliance,

I tip hat to personification of winter

and fondly think back

remembering '96 storm of the century.

At that time January 1996

me and the missus timesharing

seven nights and six days holed up

along Shawnee on the Delaware

(a honeymoon gift courtesy my parents)

spending disproportionate amount of time

frolicking under warm blankets

ardently, fervently, naturally...

both of us experiencing

devilish, feverish, impish,

loutish (more so me)... concupiscence

striving to beget offspring, yet unsuccessful

conceiving Blizzard Baby.

Now far beyond prime procreative age,

(though I wistfully envisage

begetting another progeny -

simultaneously stretching credulity

to breaking point)

all things considered

exhaustion would peter out

after capitulation of divining rod

necessitating lifetime to recoup energy.

Bound within figurative four walls

of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania domicile

courtesy appreciable snowfall,

I direct energy crafting poem.

Yours truly will actually

refrain comestibles despite feeling hungry -

lest metabolism to digest food

decreases potential alertness,

and full belly finds me

ready able and willing

to doze immediately into deep slumber.

Hungry stomach in tandem

with eventful weather

sends surge of giddiness

coursing thru body electric

crackling, popping, and snapping

(while O Captain! My Captain!)

came to witty man (me) suddenly

enervating with poignant pregnant expectancy

papa pondering his empty nest syndrome

analogously attempting to offset void

coaxing reasonable rhyme into existence

unsure how literary endeavor

(mine) will thrive

amidst well suited

panoply of prolific writers,

whose unseen fingers

hop lightly and gracefully

across qwerty computer keyboard

akin to heavy armed soldiers

with fearlessness and deliberation

heading off to war to acquire poetic license.

Meanwhile chafed knuckles

of one garden variety primate

previously scraping knuckles along tundra

in mock imitation of forebears

(methinks I espy frozen Mastodon)

before said twenty first century caveman

learned to stand erect

endeavors to strike letter combinations

eliciting, facilitating, and generating

enticing curb appeal.

The place I fall,

Every single time.

And catch me out.

When I tell myself,

I'm doing just fine.