Communication is a central factor in our day to day lives. We chat in coffee shops, write emails, send copious amounts of text messages, and talk on the phone. These are psychological necessities in our life, the connection to others and the expression of that connection. On my bookshelves are poets who write in verse, Greek plays, Shakespeare, and letters from and to authors; all of which even the most pedantic would find tiring after a while. Despite (or maybe because of) their classic status, they are thick and hard to get into at first. Don’t get me wrong, I love them dearly nonetheless. But it seems that this is almost the requirement to enter into the mainstream literary scene–there is a certain “voice” requirement. Not meeting this requirement, the mediums of communication that we employ everyday, that we do our most beautiful and base communications by, are severally devalued in the mainstream literary scene.

As the age of technology loomed threateningly and finally arrived, so did the demise of typewriters and handwritten letters and notes. The use of emails has rendered the USPS, or “snail mail,” obsolete. There are no more letters written for pleasure. We don’t check our mail boxes for letters from friends or lovers, we check them for bills. Thus, the beauty and romance of letters, that eager feeling waiting for news to come, is gone. It’s replaced by the dull dread of reading what we owe or what’s overdue at the library. As a form of pure communication, letters are antiquated; we use email, text messages, and Facebook updates to communicate to our friends and lovers. The excitement we feel comes not in opening our P.O. boxes but in opening our email inbox or when the little red notification comes up on Facebook; but even then it arguable whether that satisfaction really lasts.

Email as a function has grown and proved itself useful, but email as an art form has remained stunted. The book of letters and journal entries from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke on my desk is proof that letters can be lyrical and full of poetry. Why isn’t this the case with the electronic equivalent? Ask yourself, do you think that email can be poetry? What emotions does a really well written email or text message elicit? Is a connection there?

Carl Steadman is one of the finest examples of using email as a literary device and an art form. He authored a series of emails, by two lovers who moved apart, both literally and figuratively. It is full of wit, humor, passion, and sadness–all the qualities I look for in a good book. The title of the piece is called, “Two Solitudes,” with a tagline that reads, “The net can be a fast and direct way to communicate. But it’s still only a connection between separate points and separate realities: it doesn’t make two things the same.” (You can read more here.)

Although you can read the entire piece on one webpage now, at the time the release was much different. He had people literally participate in the piece by adding their names to a mailing list and sending out each email in the series to them. It was as if you were one of the lovers, and someone was writing to you. Or on a more voyeuristic note, it was as if you were accidentally CC’d on each delivery. This inventive use of email as an art form is inspiring: it’s a connection to the writing and journey of the characters in an interactive form that just a book a of letters couldn’t produce. There’s something so personal and unrehearsed about sending an email, and Carl Steadman captures that in his piece.

In a similar way, Tao Lin, the Brooklyn-based “eccentric,” also captures the nearly voyeuristic sense of honesty. For some quick background that you could probably deduce from Wikipedia: Tao Lin sold shares of his new novel for $2000 each (one to his parents, one to a fan, and I can’t remember the others), which got him an interview on BBC. He helped launch Muumuu House which publishes, among other things, Gmail chats. He sells the detritus of his life and writing on Muumuu house. I myself have purchased one of these detritus packs, which I felt was probably one of the creepiest things I’ve ever done. It included a picture of his childhood dog, several pages of unpublished writing, and a very hilarious doodle of a hamster. I still have the picture of his dog. It’s on my wall and every time I look at it I immediately feel good, because I’m the only one who knows what it means.

Tao Lin is honest. He writes what he thinks in short declarative sentences. And what he thinks is distinctly familiar. Like most of us, he stays up late looking at meaningless Facebook profiles when he should be getting a solid 8 hours of rest, and he drinks iced coffee and draws hamsters. To quote Wikipedia quoting Miranda July, “Tao Lin writes from moods that less radical writers would let pass—from laziness, from vacancy, from boredom.” And those feelings—laziness, vacancy, boredom—come from nights sitting alone or from Inbox (0) or from an unreplied text message; when depression is fought off with every click and you long to talk to someone or to feel in any way satisfied.  It brings to mind the Carl Steadman quotation: “The net can be a fast and direct way to communicate. But it’s still only a connection between separate points and separate realities: it doesn’t make two things the same.” The Internet is full of loneliness and people trying to absolve that emotion. Tao Lin is aware of this loneliness and disconnectedness acutely, and that’s the issue he chooses to discuss.  He often uses the mediums of emails, Tumblr blogs, and most usually Gmail chats.

When I write emails or short Tumblr posts or Gchats that I know no one will ever read (except for the person on the receiving end), I’m letting something go—a layer or a part of my personality that doesn’t normally show through. At most it’s a heightened honesty, and it’s at least its just a different dimension of existence. It feels more honest, like I can be myself without anyone judging me that I actually care about. No one will give me a dirty look or “bad vibes.” Just a bad comment that I can choose to ignore or even delete. Tao Lin has captured this emotional essence in his book SHOPLIFTING FROM AMERICAN APPAREL, and that’s what captivates me the most. He almost lives in that separate dimension of existence all the time. You should buy it and see.

This feeling of isolation, possibly derived from the Internet and our modern communication system or possibly there all along, puts human connection into question. With all of these modern, quick, communication processes, do we ever make true connections with others? Is the development of email, text messaging, and instant messaging futile attempts to bridge the gap between two humans who may never be able to truly communicate anyway? These questions are pressing for the masses of teens and twentysomethings lost in the question “What are you doing?” despite the fact that maybe nobody really cares about the answer anyway. They’re pressing for me, having grown up in the blue glow of the LCD screens and a symphony of high pitched dial up—a time when the Internet had just become a pillar for humankind (aka America). Thankfully, with every good question comes art eager and ready to give an answer a try.

Whether there truly exists an answer to this question, it’s debatable. Both Carl Steadman and Tao Lin have attempted to figure out the answers for themselves; Carl Steadman, through taking the responsibility of the connection away from the device and onto the relationship, and Tao Lin, through embracing the loneliness in a type of existential disconnection. Perhaps the answer is different for each of us; maybe we’re all searching desperately for an end to the pain of loneliness and disconnection, and maybe the Internet serves to distract us from this pain for small doses of time. *Beep* a text message, relief. *Ding* an email received, relief. A Facebook message. A reply on Twitter. A new follower. A new friend request. Relief. In their own banal way, they’re an undeniably instant solace. Yes, I know every Facebook wallpost isn’t art. But perhaps it has potential for art, maybe it’s a place to explore the intense emotions that are triggered by mere binary code and graphics. That’s the essence of this literary art form, and it’s one that should be taken seriously.

I’ve been writing all day Sunday and today, and I hate every single little word that I’ve inscribed on this meaningless screen. One of the pieces is 10 pages long (single spaced), and it took me about six hours to get out and then about two hours to edit down to something readable. And still, I think it lacks a story line, let alone contains meaning or some sort of purpose.

And you know what? I seriously haven’t watched more than 1 hour of television or film for pure pleasure in about two months. It’s either been writing, reading, or going out on these weird adventures with my partner in crime, Mari. Driving around in silk nighties with red lipstick while listening to Bob Dylan’s Freewheelin’ or reading Edgar Allen Poe by candle light at the edge of the lake or wearing wigs and fake black eyes or playing Quentin Taratino drinking games or writing secret notes to each other. So many things. So why does my writing still suck??

Yesteray we had our first rain at Mills. The leaves are yellow and scarred with the winter’s first cold breath. My room overlooks the art museum, and across the courtyard everything is wet and gray and shades of yellow. I walked around Pine Top Trail (a trail that weaves between the eucalyptus trees that surround the campus), and by the lake this morning, taking pictures with my Lomo LCA+ and red scale film. I hope they turn out well! I haven’t got film for my Polaroid yet, but hopefully that will happen soon so I can post more pictures on Flickr.

Two days ago, Barbara Lee and Helen Thomas spoke at the music hall. I went not because I’m a big fan of theirs or politics in general, but because Helen Thomas is known as a witty, incredibly smart lady. This proved to be true, and she was one of the most real people I’ve ever heard speak. That is to say that she didn’t have that layer of performance or pretension that most have when they speak in front of a big audience. She wasn’t nervous, and she said what she remembered and what she felt. My favorite part was when Ms. Thomas was asked whether it was hard being one of the only woman reporters or if she wanted to stop being the person who always asked the presidents, “Why?” She responded that she proved herself and after that it wasn’t hard. Then, she said she never wanted to stop asking questions and she wants to die asking questions, chasing down a president. Yes!, I thought.

In a lot of ways Mills is an island. Around me there’s poverty and violence but it’s not a part of the day to day life here. Instead, I’m surrounded by trees and creeks and grassy fields and hallowed halls of education. It’s a strange disconnect. I manage to get out on the weekends and stay in the city, which is great. The streets there feel so comfortable hold such possibilities. So far I’ve seen several bands play, seen authors read, watched independent films galore, observed people, road BART (note: it is not the BART, it is just BART), road the MUNI at all hours of the night and day, had coffee at my favorite haunts, shopped at the thrift stores in Mission and Haight, and froze my ass off riding bikes up and down hills. Basically perfect. But then I come home and see Laurel, the district near Mills, empty of open stores but full of poverty ridden street people, and it feels strange. Or I hear shootings going on by the aptly named “Mills Liquor” and then ambulances and I think, How can this exist?

But really, Mills itself is marvelous. There is a deep quiet about it that is truly zen-like. In fact, I have come to call it Mills Monestary. (Not just because it is all girls…or should I say women?) The quiet is deep, and has to do with the way the trees stand in the sunlight in the afternoon, how the light places itself upon the branches like colors on some romantic-era painter’s oil of the new frontier. It also has to do with the smell of eucalyptus and wetness and a bit of vanilla.

To be honest, at first the silence frustrated me. I like to be in the thick of the action sometimes, and there isn’t really any action exactly. Well, there is not any ACTION. There is action (lower case). What I am trying to say is that I have liked, in the past, to hear voices yelling and to feel the pulse of a place beating away under my finger tips.

What Mills has taught me is silence. I am learning to be at peace with myself because I am so confronted with my inner voice and my thoughts that I can’t help but be at peace. There are two choice though: I can either detest what is within me and try hard to escape that through distractions, or I can come to a balance and accept it with love and virtue. (And I mean virtue in the Platonic sense of the word.)

Now, this isn’t to say that I’m at that perfect point yet. Far from it. I’m just attempting to live an examined life and go about it with awareness. And in addition to this, I’m trying to make my life exactly how I want it to be, with smells and images and people in it that are beautiful and interesting.

My room is a good example. I have a IBM Selectric, a coffee machine, books scattered every where, original paintings on the walls, quotes from Kafka and Salinger and various Zen poets and Wes Anderson tacked up, Polaroids and pictures on pin boards, film canisters on my desk, typewritten pages in stacks, a Gameboy with Super Mario Bros in it, flowers from the community garden in wine bottles, small action figures of Spock and Buffy in my window, my cameras hanging by their straps on the wall, a huge puffy reading chair, the comfiest bed ever, a lush Indian carpet laying on hardwood floors, and a white board with a Voltaire quote written on it. Plus notes, comics, postcards and doodles drawn for and about me by my friends on the walls. It’s just a big collection of my favorite things. I think the collective mass of it should probably be trashed immediately for the good of my enlightenment journey. But alas, I doubt that will happen any time soon.

The best part about college though has to be the classes. I’m taking Philosophy, Classic to Modern Cinema, English Composition, and my favorite, Advanced Creative Nonfiction taught by Patricia Powell. My philosophy teacher has a beard which he loves to stroke during discussions about Plato’s dialectics and whenever there’s an interlocution that involves “aporia.” It’s kind of hilarious. I’ve also decided that he’s the love child of Jason Schwartsman’s character in Darjeeling Limited and that Indian woman who plays the love interest.

I love film class. It’s probably my second favorite. We started off with the silent films, and I fell in love with German Expressionism (my favorite film is The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, but Metropolis was obviously good too). Also, I think that D. W. Griffith was an amazing director and film maker, but it was a tragedy that he was so racist and close minded. Intolerance was a master piece, undoubtedly. Last weekend, I studied, lived, breathed, existed only film. I had the hugest mid term imaginable. Three hours long. Several essays. I just got my grade back and I’m happy to announce I got far from a bad grade! Quite the opposite, actually.

After the test, he showed us two experimental films. The first was Dali’s Un Chien Andalou, which I had already seen. Our teacher, Ken Burke, put his own soundtrack in: Bob Dylan. It actually worked well! I always thought Dylan’s lyrics to be somewhat abstract. The other, however, was new to me. It was called–actually I forgot what it was called but it was by Maya Derren and it involved several images of keys and a surprisingly advanced knowledge of camera movement. It was my favorite of the two because it described a dream-like state, and it mimicked the emotions and feelings of a dream perfectly. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Also, the soundtrack was particularly effective in heightening tension of the actions–plus, awesome drumming. All in all an excellent example of formalist avant garde. (Edit: I found it after some searching! It’s called Meshes of the Afternoon.)

In Patricia Powell’s Advanced Creative Nonfiction class, we meet for three hours every Wednesday in a small room with amazing afternoon sunlight. It’s formatted a lot like a usual workshop class, and Patricia has the BEST voice I have ever heard on an English teacher. It is deep and lightly accented (she is from Jamaica), and she has this slow way about her that makes you feel relaxed and pensive. We actually discuss some very personal issues, so I’m happy that she’s so laid back and puts me at ease. The people in the class are pretty interesting characters, too. I might use them in a story one day.

Tonight I went to a reading by her; she read from her new book “The Fullness of Everything.” There were other authors who read, all from the South American/Caribbean/Jamaican areas. It was some sort of potluck and there were mounds of the delicacies from those areas. As Patricia read her thoughtful prose I sipped Puerto Rican coffee with fresh cream (literally just milked from a cow that day), and ate pumpkin seeds baked with cinnamon spices.

And now I’m lying in my bed, sleepy and content, after just finishing up a first draft of one of my writing pieces and editing an essay about online literary movements for my composition class. In about fifteen minutes I’ll put on a bathrobe and take a hot bath while reading The American Dream by Edward Albee. Then, I’ll either put on Lost in Translation and attempt to stay awake, or fall asleep and go to bed early tonight. It’s extremely probable that it’ll be the latter. This weekend and the past few nights have been both late and filled crazy adventure, so it’ll be nice to get a solid 8 hours for Philosophy in the morning.

I have decided honest is more honest on ink and apparently printer paper, the thin, cheap variety. It is more honest if you carve each word into the paper, each word resounding in yoru ear like some sort of stone mason. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. That is how honesty works, really.

I fell asleep with the window open, and with the smell of smoke in the afternoon light. The air is starting to get colder now, my first time with air like this. My air is usually warm, lightly windy and filled with the native blossoms of Hawaii. There aren’t many native blossoms here but there are trees, lots of trees. The tall kind that make you think they are magic and older than time. The air is coming into my window next to my bed. Sleep is still in my mouth, and the smoke is still in the air but now it’s night. Beautiful night. I can smell the ink from the typewriter and it means nothing except for I’m home. I’m home, and honesty.

My fingers are so cold against the typewriter keys. I can’t see anything. I can’t see the words I’m typing but I can feel them and that’s enough. You can feel words with a typewriter. I feel the honesty of childhood nights looking into the sky and hearing a whippoorwill release his call and of looking into a different night and seeing the trees shake with wind and the ocean rock back and forth in eternal movement. Those things I remember seeing out of windows most.

I’m alone in the world now, alone save for these voices around me that shake through the thin walls. I’m alone in the world but it feels shockingly familiar, like this is actually how it has always been. I have fallen asleep with the window open and I have seen my window views and maybe no one else has, really. It doesn’t feel so different to be alone and I have even stopped worrying about what is going to come. I have stopped worrying about the future because I have realized the present is good and there is lots to be done and observe and feel that if I were to worry about what the future looks likes I would never see anything in front of me. Like the afternoon light that turned to night in front of my eyes. Or smell anything. Like the smell of firewood and trees, old trees, and typewriter ink and honesty. Most importantly honesty. How could I be honest, carve words into the cheap printer paper when I am worrying about the future. The future lies on the next line of paper, the next shifting and swoop of the “enter” button as it goes off. And the window is still open, I can see the moon now, because it is full.

My home break, Kalama’s, can sometimes get moderately big waves, and these past few weeks it’s been getting exactly that. My days are punctuated by spontaneous runs down to the beach, usually at some bizarre time like 5:30 am or 11:50 pm. The waves are soft and hard at the same time, and I throw my body into them like one throws themselves off a building.  The impact is strong, but satisfying.

With the summer months being hot and sticky, the distance to the beach has gotten shorter. Most times it feels like the only logical place to go as I walk around the house or the city sponged in sweat. Sometimes I bring my boogie board, but usually I just run down in my swim suit and nothing else. Sometimes, even less than a swimsuit. The impulse to cartwheel into the water is at times too strong, so I just swim fully clothed.

Once when I was 10 my uncle took me to a place called Pyramid Rock to surf. The beach was off the Kaneohe Marine Core Base; we drove through guards and past boxy grey barracks. Pyramid Rock was a beach for short boarders and what my uncle liked to call, “spongers,” which meant boogie boarders. The waves were large and the current was strong. The water was deep blue, an indication of the depth. All along the beach people’s bags, fins and boards lined the sand–no one was tanning.

I put my fins on that I’d purchased at Goodwill. They were practically new; they was a high quality brand and fit perfectly. Boogie boards in hand we walked together and swam out through the shore break. As he caught the large waves, about 6-7 foot faces, I floated over them as best I could. But then there was this wave. It didn’t look as big as the others, and no one else seemed to want to catch it. I kicked my fins and pushed the nose down hard and wiggled myself onto the wave.

The boogie board slipped down the slope with such speed and mobility that I temporarily lost my head. I couldn’t think about anything else. The acceleration from my kicking to the speed of a six foot wave behind me. Needless to say, I kept moving forward instead of turning with the wave and I crashed into the white water. I felt like I was going to drown, the wave was pulling me down so hard. I panicked, lost my air, and gasped like a fish with snot running down my face when I surfaced. Immediately, another wave came and my head dunked down again. When I surfaced the second time, I vaguely heard my uncle yelling something to me.

“Stand up!” he was screaming.

I stood up, and to my surprise the water barely came up to my hip bones. I walked calmly to shore with my board in tow and collapsed onto the sand, panting.

I was drinking iced water the other day, looking at the chunks of frozen liquid bouncing off the sides, and I remembered France. There isn’t iced water, only water without ice. The cultural weirdness of this got me spinning and thinking about graduation. Right of passage? Dancing naked around flames?

I was eating dinner with my dad the other day and we were eating french fries. Our faces were greasy and we stared at each other not really needing to say anything. Then I asked, “What was your graduation like?” and he said, “It was big, there were over a thousand people in my class. It was hot.” Then he called his classmate and best friend who he’s known for over fifty years, since they were four. “What was graduation like?” he asked. And then he passed the phone to me and the friend said, “I don’t really remember our graduation. It was hot.” Will I remember my graduation? Is it something important or all vile ceremonies?

Sometimes in senior sing I sit on the bleachers and smell the sweat from everyone around me and wonder: what will I remember? Do these moments of stifling hot gymnasium fumes and Tsuda’s voice and hilarious clichés make up something bigger and more substantial?

In the bridge the other day Anna said that she’ll miss the little interactions with people during the school day. Everyone agreed and said that most people in the class are not close friends but just people that they see everyday and occasionally converse with. I nodded my head and seemed to agree but when I actually thought about it, I won’t miss those people. It seems harsh but it isn’t, really. Everything naturally comes to an end and we all die with wishes clasped in our hands. Maybe it is better to accept the natural end of relationships and places and experiences.

I am very close at every moment to agonizing over the people that I laugh with during European History, or the person I sit next to in Senior Sing or assembly ever cycle, or maybe that one person I thought I’d be able to befriend if I had the chance. Or over the salad bar that I’ll never eat from again or the water fountain, oh dear water fountain, that was so cold and so refreshing. I’m very close to agonizing and pining away with my video camera watching the sparkling flow of the water cascade in the sunlight.

I don’t, though. I’m finely balanced on the edge of agonizing and not giving a fuck. I say goodbye to those people, whether in my head or out loud, and I may take a picture or two but mostly I just smell the sweat in Senior Sing, and the dust in the Bridge, and the fresh grass in the quad. I watch the sun through the slits in the gym windows, and the leaves fall onto the walkway, and the freshman dart nervously into their exam rooms this last week of high school (ever).

It all seems right. It didn’t happen to soon, or too late. I approve of the timeline, and mostly I laugh til I cry everytime I think about the beauty of it all.

He’d had one job, in high school, though if he were honest he’d admit that it was his dream. He was an ice cream man. He never really understood how he got the job, but he scooped and drove and rang the bell like no other. On the job, he proudly wore a vintage suit he’d found at Goodwill for five dollars. He felt as though this is a how an ice cream man should be—well dressed, kind, benevolent, and jolly. The kids used to come running down the block to line up for him and he’d play games with them in the baking summer months as the melted cream ran down their sticky faces. He remembered all their birthdays.

Once, he had come down his usual corner and no kids were running toward him.

“Stevie! John! Xander!” he had yelled his favorite’s names and rung his bell.

Xander and Stevie walked out from behind one of the houses and invited him back. It turned out that Stevie’s family from China–her entire family–were visiting and there was a huge party in their backyard.
He’d gone back, eaten way too many crab legs, and just listened to the fast paced Chinese being spoken around him. Of course he couldn’t understand a word, but somehow the jokes were still funny and the stories still sad, and he’d sat there just absorbing the energy and the sounds.

Then he started getting too popular, and kids from the surrounding neighborhoods would come to his route. They told him stories of the other ice cream men, who were cruel and sharp tongued and had once, Billy told him with real tears in his eyes, ran over his cat and laughed. He didn’t believe this, because he believed in ice cream man honor, and he knew that young children sometimes made up stories and forgot that they weren’t real.

However, his views on his fellow ice cream men began changing one morning when he came to the ice cream truck warehouse to unplug his car and get started. Someone had unplugged his electric cord, the one that kept the ice cream cold and hard.

“What the fuck!” he’d yelled.

“Hah, looks like da guys are playing tricks on ya. Did y’do anything to piss ‘em off?” the manager inquired.

He’d brushed it off as a one-time episode but that entire day he couldn’t help noticing the vicious glares from the other ice cream men as they passed each other on the intersections. Images of Billy’s dead cat flashed in his mind.

The next morning as he was pulling out of the warehouse he felt a firm tug on his truck. Upon inspection, he’d found that the electric chord was tied around his tailgate.

“That coulda killed ya!” the manager had exclaimed from the dark shadows. “If that snapped you woulda been fried! The entire trucks metal. Death trap.”

He’d lived his life upon the virtue of ice cream man honor. He’d had faith in the ice cream man honor. But an ice cream man had nearly killed him.

He was almost murdered by an ice cream man.

So he left and never came back.

“Once, a very long time ago, I found a journal on the bus. It was sitting on the very last row by the window, and I didn’t notice it until I had sat down and situated myself. The cover shiny and unblemished, but it looked used and possibly loved. Most of the pages were written on, they flipped easily and I noticed sketches and neat, box-like handwriting. The very back of the last page had the words, “Tell me how it finishes,” written in all capitals on it.

As the bus let people off at the last stop before it entered the Pali, people streamed out the doors and I settled down in my seat. Alone, just me and the bus driver, the journal vibrated as it perched on my lap. It seemed to be emitting a warm electrical current.

Regarding the journal, I mostly wondered about the author…why they left it on the bus, where they were headed, what they were thinking. I was eager to start reading their inner most thoughts and emotions. But at the same time, in the back of my mind I was sure that I’d be zapped by some all powerful journal God if I violated its sacred secrecy. I remember actually chuckling aloud at that thought.

I opened it anyway, just as the bus shuddered around the Pali hair pin turn. I slowly lifted the hard bound cover.

Before I could realize what happened, the pages started fluttering wildly and a hot wind blew fiercely into my face. As the tempestuous wind gained strength, the bus was bursting at its seams, and the doors were flapping loudly. I held tightly to the journal with one hand, and with the other I grasp at one of the metal stability bars.

“Ahh!” said the driver.

“Ahh!” I said.

The driver soon lost control of the bus and hurtled over the Pali ledge. My body flew up with the momentum and slowly my eyeballs worked their way through my soft grey brain tissue until my cerebral cortex was completely penetrated. Due to gravity and the force of the fall, my own eyes were as effective as bullets at destroying my brain. However, my heart was still beating. That is, until the bus crashed and a particularly pointy pine rammed itself through the center of my body. Then I was completely dead.”

The shimmering light finished its tale matter-of-factly and seemed to regard me with indignation.

“That, young girl,” said the ghostly spectre, “is my tale. HEED IT OR PERISH.”

**

“Ahh!” I said outloud and realized with a start that I had been having a nightmare. There was a long drool mark against the window of the bus, and that journal I’d found at the bus stop was still balanced on my lap.

Looking up through the window, I realized that we were just about to hit the hair pin turn. Creepy, I thought, I’d just been dreaming about that.

I picked up the journal in my hands, and with a slight flip of my stomach, I opened the black, hard bound cover page.