A woman with red hair was charging up the stairs towards me. I stepped aside to let her pass, and then, because she wasn’t wearing a mask, I reversed course and followed her. Good choice on my part: She turned out to be Lady Macbeth.
For more than an hour I had been wandering the halls and rooms of the McKittrick Hotel, in Manhattan’s Chelsea district, turning pages in a desktop ledger, pulling books off a bedroom shelf, fishing candy from the glass jars behind a pharmacy counter, losing myself in a maze of Birnam wood. I later learned from the family members and friend who also attended the event that evening that I had missed the rave/orgy. (Twice.) By the time I caught up with Lady Macbeth, I was wondering if I would ever be able to make a narrative out of what I was experiencing. I had also begun to wonder why I would want to.







