Even though she has no sense of direction and gets lost all the time LuLu got to Swamp Camp before me. No straight lines make up her life. It probably helped that any lines that make it to the swamp are already broken, been breeched, too short to reach, wracked by floods into jumbled piles. Muddy waters ooze out clans of turtle, egret, tupelo, owl, gator and what you might make of yourself. Catfish purr through all that has fallen from the perfect grids up river. Sunk into the only sense of direction the swamp requires: Down. The compass that guides is seized by the muck. No one really knows the way. This is where the bluesman sings and LuLu dreams in polka dots. Because that’s what Lu Lus do. Polka dots that come unmoored and sway in skirts dancing on rickety boat docks as dusk settles in the cypress woods gauzed in Spanish moss.