In emergency, pull this.

I remember lying in bed at night when I was younger - probably nine or ten. I used to imagine my escape plan in case of a fire. We had run drills, of course. The plan was to crawl out to my parents' room and go out onto the roof, then down this big nasty evergreen tree. But if I couldn't get there, I'd have to jump out of my window. We lived on a hill, and my window was three stories up because of the way the hill sloped to reveal our basement. There was a little brick patio right below my window, too. I imagined sitting on my windowsill, telling myself to jump, swinging my legs a little, smelling the smoke and watching it seep in through the cracks of the doorway.

I'd lie in my bed. (Lay? Lie? And you call yourself an English major?) I'd think of all the things I would throw out the window before pushing my butt off the sill. My diary. My favorite dolls, Delta the cabbage patch and Kirsten, whom I'd paid for with my own money (Where did I get $75?). I'd also wrap some sentimental figurines and small boxes and things in my pink baby blanket, and chuck that over. Then I'd leap and pray for the best, trying to roll like my brothers did when they missed the landing from their skateboard ramp.

It's funny, though, how this evacuation plan became a regular nighttime routine. No wonder I turned into an insomniac. I'd imagine the fire all around... at 13 I thought of things I'd want left there and destroyed, because, let's face it, I'd probably die in that jump and then I wouldn't want my journal to survive me. At seventeen I'd chuck all my writings out, and my artwork, and most of my cds if I could figure out a way to pad them well enough and quickly enough. In the summer after I graduated from college, I thought I'd jump and maybe fly out toward the moon, if it was a moony night. I would love to abandon everything that existed before me, and let it burn.

Why does this come up, you wonder?

Let's call my new roomie the H Bomb. Just cuz I think I'm funny. She's beautiful and nice, but she needs a nickname.

Anyway, the H Bomb's boyfriend, Tom, lives in Florida, on the eastern coast. Y'know, the coast that's getting harassed by that pesky hurricane. Last night his whole area was evacuated. He caught a flight to Boston to hang out in our apartment and hope that his boarded-up windows will hold against the storm. When I let him in he had three big bags full of stuff, and I imagined all the things I'd take now - important medical and financial papers, gifts from parents and loved ones, love letters, expensive and favorite clothes... But none of these felt urgent. Maybe it's moving away from home that does it, but I feel supremely unattached. I'd be at a loss, I expect, for a week or so, thinking of all the value of the things. I'd think, "Man, I should have sold it all. I could use the money now."

Do I have a point? Maybe not. I guess I'm just saying that I sometimes feel like I'm floating away from everything. All the things I can touch, I suppose they're real, but nothing is close enough, and nothing is a part of me. I don't remember feeling this way before. What is it? What is it...