"Are you homeless?" she yelled at me. "You're MAD." I'd approached her--seated outside Times Supermarket on a blanket with an umbrella and few other possessions--to offer her two green bars. "I don't want nuts!," she yelled, and I thought she meant nuts in the bars I was holding, but she meant crazies. "Why are you talking to me?" she demanded. "I'm not homeless, I'm from Kahuku." She held up a blurry newspaper article that had been covered in plastic a long time ago. I saw nothing except a blurry, unreadable black and white photograph. "You want my fucking real estate?!!" I noticed her eyes, I heard her voice, I saw that her hair was held back with a cheap golden headband, that her teeth were yellow, but the details don't add up to image. The fragments are land and theft, madness and home, and those are as real as her illness.
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