Once she knew a boy who collected spare keys and strung them on a cable.

He never tried to unlock anything–as far as she knew. But he liked the weight

of them. Hundreds. He could hardly lift them. He liked their different shapes.

She liked that each key carried a secret story. She does not, however, like junk

drawers, stuffed with bent paper clips, leaky batteries, dried pens, plastic forks,

yellowed recipes. Rotting rubber bands. A single, gummy key. She wants every

thing in its place. Everything found and clean. Once, she had a rabbit–big, white,

bossy, with pink eyes–who lined up her wooden toys, parallel and evenly spaced.

Now, near her house, people live in tents along the creek. Some sweep their dirt

stoops. Most have shopping carts full of damp newspapers, broken toys, blenders

with no cords, take-out containers, art in cracked frames. They adopt stray dogs.

Her mother was a stray, with no family, forever moving to a new cities, hauling

her heavy purse, but leaving the rest behind. Friends. Furniture. Photographs.

Keys. It frightened her how easily her mother forgot the past. She traveled light,

but her brain was a storage unit of stories and pain. The girl kept scrapbooks,

proof that she had once belonged to a time and place. Proof she owned a story.

Now, she has lived a long time in one place. She tries to keep her life spare. She

no longer keeps scrapbooks. She uses an electronic key. She fears she no longer

has a story. She tries to keep her life spare, but she’s still a tourist of excess:

She likes seeing intricate cathedrals, graffitied walls, elaborate back tattoos.

Her dreams are complicated. She is running late. She has lost her bags. Her keys.

She can’t find her way through the corridors of city streets. Airports. Shopping

Malls. Hotels. High schools. She is driving too fast. Her steering wheel is loose.

People’s faces are always changing. She wishes she were a rabbit with toys tidy

and parallel. But now the knots and networks of her body no longer know how

to speak to each other. They have lost the keys to each other’s houses. They have

forgotten their shared story. But this is the body she has. She doesn’t have a spare.

We are on the edge of the New Age. You

will no longer be ruled by your losses

or pain. You will substitute applesauce

for vegetable oil and the brownies will

taste just as good. You will be exquisitely

fashionable. You will be brave in the face

of death. Your feet will stop growing their

new wrinkles and veins. Your feelings will

never be hurt again. You will knit your own

sweaters with wool from the lamb you nursed

with a baby bottle. You will remember

what matters: land and animals and love

and making things with your hands. You

will write long letters. You will not nest

with throw pillows, heating pads, and hot

baths: you will travel with your lean muscles

and a backpack. You will sleep on rocks under

stars. The sky will be in your chest. You will be

boundless and ageless. You will get love-drunk

and run the streets of far-away cities, whooping

and hollering–your heart, big and loose. You will

remember everyone’s story. You will embrace

your bare and mottled face. You will not be afraid.

You will carve a snow cave and confess your sloppy

love. You will get better every day. You will teach

children what is most important. Yoga will fix

everything. You will see all things clearly.

I visited the exhibit of an artist who had developed an allergy

to electricity and paint and all his dyes. Now, he works

by candlelight and weaves colorless fabrics large as walls.

Electricity is a mystery to me. It sparks our cars, brights

our lights, beats our hearts, flashes news along our nerves,

translates will to action. (All winter, my husband is shocked

by door handles, shopping cart handles, my nose, my lips.

His kiss is a star between us.) In the 1800s, doctors believed

mental illness was a disease of the nerves: they prescribed

the rest cure, rich foods, and dangerous medicines that

didn’t work. As I child, I thought the song lyric “Here

comes your 19th nervous breakdown” was about my mother.

She prescribed herself the rest cure, which looked, to me,

a lot like depression: so many months lost to dark rooms,

cold coffee, cigarette butts. Rest wasn’t cure, but symptom.

Me? I’d outwit, outsprint lethargy with my will. I did.

Until this illness made the sheaves around my nerves

feel stripped. I wish I could spread my nerves like a net

across the bed for a nap, pause leaps across synaptic

gaps. Has my electricity gone askew? Or are there potholes

in my paths? Doctors wrote “anxiety” in their notes

(tut-tutted the sensitive imagination, recommended

meditation) until I finally had a diagnosis; even so,

they can’t explain why self-electrocution is a symptom.

Nervous breakdowns are out of fashion. Anxiety

is trending. Bedrotting as a cure is popular on Tik Tok.

Doctors prescribed dangerous medications that didn’t work,

Only rest helps. And movement. In some delicately

textured, ever-changing weave no expert can prescribe.

I must pay attention to my signals. But not too much

–or my hissing nerves will drive me frantic. I try to meditate.

I’m learning a new art. I must feel my way by candlelight.