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a bad time of it
Dec. 3rd, 2007 12:25 amI've spent today packing and doing laundry, since I'll have class and evening commitments Monday and Tuesday and need to put my stuff in storage on Wednesday. (I'm having the hostel rent out my room when I'm not here.) I tripped on the stairs and skinned my knee - genuinely skinned, as in took off the top layer of skin but did not break the skin - which is something I haven't done in at least 15 years (the skinning) and probably more. I can't remember the last time at all, only that it's happened before. I got pretty excited. I keep lifting my skirt to look at it. My hygenic choice not to poke it constantly shows marvelous restraint.
This is my main engagement with my body for the time being. Most bits of it don't look anything like I expect them to. I still have a bruise on my thigh that looks like a huge port-wine birthmark. I have a tummy all of a sudden, and I don't know where it came from; it's never a place I carried weight, nor do I know where that weight would have come from. I keep prodding it, trying to figure out whether it's an optical illusion, whether it was always there and only looks different because something else has changed. Maybe it is because I'm not sleeping much.
Poetry, I don't know why I'm writing what I'm writing, little bits of chant:
the glove on my hand is hand made
hand knit by a maid
hand holding hand
It's unlike me, and not a style liked by me. Circles. Lots of loops. Words picked for sound more than meaning. Babble, almost. I write them like they're spells. I don't know why.
I miss Ciro, and I don't know how to make it better. I packed today. I know I'll see him on Thursday. I'm struggling to make it mean anything. He unpacked some of my Dallas stuff today as I packed here, making ready, making things appear there as things disappear here, yet I feel outside his life. Through circumstance, we spoke for an hour today on a bad connection - the first time we've talked in two weeks. I don't know how much I count when I'm not there. I'm very tired. I don't know how to make it better.
This is my main engagement with my body for the time being. Most bits of it don't look anything like I expect them to. I still have a bruise on my thigh that looks like a huge port-wine birthmark. I have a tummy all of a sudden, and I don't know where it came from; it's never a place I carried weight, nor do I know where that weight would have come from. I keep prodding it, trying to figure out whether it's an optical illusion, whether it was always there and only looks different because something else has changed. Maybe it is because I'm not sleeping much.
Poetry, I don't know why I'm writing what I'm writing, little bits of chant:
the glove on my hand is hand made
hand knit by a maid
hand holding hand
It's unlike me, and not a style liked by me. Circles. Lots of loops. Words picked for sound more than meaning. Babble, almost. I write them like they're spells. I don't know why.
I miss Ciro, and I don't know how to make it better. I packed today. I know I'll see him on Thursday. I'm struggling to make it mean anything. He unpacked some of my Dallas stuff today as I packed here, making ready, making things appear there as things disappear here, yet I feel outside his life. Through circumstance, we spoke for an hour today on a bad connection - the first time we've talked in two weeks. I don't know how much I count when I'm not there. I'm very tired. I don't know how to make it better.
