And then one day she happened to mention that "ping guO" meant apple in Chinese.  That’s when you went picking for weeds.  You just had to get out of there as soon as possible and weeding the joint was probably the best bet.  So you dug and dug at the side of the house; went on tight and fiddled whisper for as long as you knew how, and then: though once abundant she went away over many different valleys to find out what it meant to touch you. 

But no, let’s not charge those high rates at this time of night, let’s continue to head downward down, soundly with her thimble.  Like so many noises it made you think about that time she said: "i’ll show you mine if you show me yours", and even though she had just opened up to you the land and the desert that keep you down made you turn her away.  

"Isn’t it foolish?" the fisherman says.
"Should I beware, should I cry out?" you ask politely.
"If you wanna be the Brave Son of Curled in a Bawl, then go for it," he suggests.

This at first you might take to heart and then begin to consider and wonder if it’s worth the application of your time, energy and probably also money.  Eventually you say to yourself: well if that’s what the fisherman thinks then that’s probably my best course of action.  So you take off your clothes to show her yours only to realize she left a long time ago. 

Where’d she go?

This would soon become the subject of seasons.  In the winter you imagined her crawling deep inside, so deep down that the chosen destination was unknown.  The ticket was blank, and it worked at every bus stop, all the way to spring.  The ticket was loaded but not with weapons; at least not until that day you saw her again down by the fish market: 

It was a strange day.  The ocean gave way to a pier and cigarette butts lingered upon it.  Some crumbling building seemed brand new covered in graffiti soon to be washed away yet still remembered for eternity because of that picture you took.  

That’s when you see her and imagine mothers clutching their children.  A frozen streak runs down the back of all those bad dreams you had about her: that dishwater run dry smell of her, that poor grey view of her, that young weeping mistress look about her, that god gave little green apples to in a mad delusion of her, and especially the lightning of her, the cosmos of her, the patchy over-view of her there before your eyes like my god how long was that winter?

But here’s the weapons: she doesn’t even see you in that spring there on the pier, nor in the summer by the old swimming hole, nor the autumn after you gave up swimming.  And so there you are on Halloween reading words randomly drawn from a fishbowl, trying in vain to avoid your earthly relations and the predatory results of a market economy; all of a sudden finding that the real economy is based on private information, somehow the fear of the unconscious -- a billion dollar industry -- waiting to be mined over and over again, and upon this realization -- the idea of seeking this information -- gaining said information -- it all becomes a preoccupation for about an hour.

It is Halloween after all, and she always loved Halloween, and so you decide to give her a call.  You dial the old number (you know it by heart) and you feel your heart beating as the phone begins to ring.  Suddenly you find yourself considering the message you will leave, rehearsing it in your head so that you aren’t caught off guard -- so that it sounds natural when you record it even though you also know that you’ll probably just hang up if -- 

"Hello yes is this the satellite?"
"Why yes," she says flatly: "whom may I connect you to?"
"Give me extension 1132 please."
"One moment," she says and you’re placed on hold.

The hold music is something contemporary sounding at first -- some Alternative Rock Number we have all tried to forget -- when all of a sudden it becomes Handel’s Lullaby and you really begin to wonder about the service at this place when:

"1132 here.  What is your purpose?"
"I’ve come looking for many different valleys to explore."
"I’m afraid you have the wrong department," she says.
"No wait!" you try not to explode, "the many different valleys to explore in order to find what it means to touch you," you explain.
"Oh," she says, "well in that case I’m going to need you to file a report."
"A report?" you ask.
"Standard operating procedure only," she explains, "afterwards we can get down to ’brass-tax’ if you will."
"I’m not sure if I would," you say as the forums are faxed over.
"Look you can just fill them out later," she says over the receiver.
"I see," you say, "I think I understand."
"If you show me yours I’ll show you mine," she says.
So you stick your dick into the fax machine and then she hangs up.