I used to have a handful of secret places, back when I had more space. Here in
New Orleans, it's hard to have a secret place that other people don't already know about. It is quite
a challenge to think of them in terms of physical description, but I will
try my best.
A secret place for me is inside a shell inside of which I can still see, if I so choose, the world around me. It puts a layer of something not easily pushed aside between me and the things that sometimes scare me about the world, layers of sheet metal or glass.
One place could easily be my Festiva, my little red car. I don't have passengers usually, and I drive as though I don't expect to. The passenger seat is always full of cassette tapes; my emergency brake has just enough room on either side to hold a medium drink from any fast food joint I frequent. I have that elusive feeling of control. Over the temperature, speed, sound, and motion of my little red bubble. It gives me the illusion of movement and direction, of accomplishment and equality. It makes me feel less incapable of functioning in the world.
....more to come