Needless to say, I fanboy-ed tf out on her after—my advisor was there with his wife and wasn’t tryna turn up.

I copped her chapbook, Philadelphia (2017), literally about living itinerantly post-college till settling in Philly and coping with the urge, every time new feelings surfaced, to flee again.

But then not fleeing.

But then staying.

I came somatically the entire drive back to Philly.

•

When I got home from the Eileen Myles reading, I started frantically going through my bookshelves, tryna find Gina’s chapbook.

But then remembered. I gave it to editor bae, last summer, right before she ghosted. For her birthday.

And when I checked online, I learned that they’d only printed 100 copies and…were all sold out!

Editor bae had no clue what I’d given her.

How much.

Would likely never.

Luckily, I took pictures of every page.

All twenty-four of them.

Reading em over that night, I remembered why I fucked with em so heavy.

Philadelphia wasn’t a book that tickled my literary sensibilities. That instructed or entertained me.

It did much more.

Each poem a mantra, to be read every morning.

Every time I felt I was about to spazz out.

Every poem medicine—calming agents.

For one, the book felt like an obverse, companion piece to my Walk Book.

The Walk Book was 100 page-long anecdotes, each titled the name of a city/town, and dated, spanning March–June 2014.

The title of Gina’s chapbook was literally Philadelphia, and the first page was simply

August–October 2014.

My Walk Book Winter–Spring, her chapbook Summer–Fall, same year.

‘Obverse’ meaning not only opposite but part of the same thing—rather than opposed—like sides of a coin.

Mine a prolonged manic episode about constantly moving to flee the feelings, the crisis.

Hers about having the same impulse to flee the feelings, the crisis, but instead staying put. Having the courage to look right at em.

It starts:

New city same shit

Moving through

the streets

pre-fall golden

in late afternoon

sunlight / bright red

crumbling brick

& shoddy graffiti

asks freedom?

She out here, moving through these streets. Walking. Yet she accepts that she can only go so far. Doesn’t try to turn her stroll into a neurotic, completionist quest bc she knows she can’t. Knows that that impulse is futile.

There is

no breeze

I do not

put myself

forward / I am

just here

walking down

the sidewalk

refusing

to make sense

of things

that can’t be

made sense of

& appreciating

my insignificance

It’s not like she dulling herself to the feelings. She feels them. Heavy.

We can go

to the coast

It’s a short drive

We’ll make believe

a getaway vacation

& walk the boardwalk

& in the morning

I’ll take you

to the airport

Everything is

fleeting

& it makes life

more interesting

We will have fun

until we won’t