The Everyday Work of Bodies

I can hear the water running in the apartment below mine. Perhaps it is a bathtub running at the late night end of a long day; perhaps it is the rush to launder tomorrow morning's work clothes. There is an occasional clunk. Besides that and the occasional sound of car tires splitting puddles on pavement, everything is quiet tonight.

I am thankful.  I have been wanting things to just slow down. To let me lay, as I am now, in my bedroom, typing a bit while I rub my legs together. It's a habit of mine and one of the free joys in life: to have recently shaved my legs, lotioned them, and lay across my blankets- on my side, elbow propping my arm up to prop my head up- and just enjoy the smoothness of my legs sliding against each other.

(It is the little things: Things that aren't quite perverse, but are still frowned upon in public.)

In any case, I have been thinking of the body-as-machine. Thinking about  disconnection  and mechanics. Thinking of how I do not like attention. I freeze within it and, when I do, I cannot melt again until I am here, in my room.

I've been disappointed in myself lately, and  just being kind of mean inside myself.  And when that happens, I know that it is time to read, and that it is time to connect the beautiful and thick gold ropes I have in my hands. Knot them together. Tighten them. Make sure that I am constructing- confirming- the safety net made of those who love me- to spread out below me as I perform these tricks.


The sound of a lonesome flag, centered at the top of a hill, flapping in the wind at night,

                                         --k.

Photo:  Artwork by Ron Pillar, New Language
Title: A vague reference to a Rodan album with a similar name