Within for Healthier Living
my own body, I deconstructed several past instances of emotional
devastation, converted them into something more substantial, like
rooms, initially to satisfy my desire for the concrete, my longing to
of a bruised
sort of smoke. A den where plants migrate to die. The closet is brown
and slides on a broken hinge. I have seen it snow inside this room. I
have seen the snow dirtied from smoke. I have lain under the snow
dirtied from smoke, as the withered plants walk around me, waiting to
die. I have analyzed the wallpaper. It is always yellow. At certain
times, within certain months, I have slept here with uncertainty.
reasons beyond my own sense of carpentry, I enclosed space for
subtlety, destined perimeters for indecisiveness.
I was complaining again of occupancy limitations.
a view as
seen through small toy cameras, such as the Holga. Slightly blurry
around the sides with light leaking. A faucet drips in hues of pink.
I have gathered the curtain accordingly, around its edges, this room
is all around the edges and surrounded by tile spilt bathwater. Scuba
gear displayed on a hook. I always forget it’s there, until
minute, right before the sea level approaches my chin, as it always
does, with such precision, with such valor, with such sadness, as the
curtains swim and swirl to the sides, there still remains a
boards and certain ledges, I imagined myself jumping from or standing
still . . .
naked back, in all blue, it is the only seemingly open object, so
much that it reflects sliding glass light, with her neck to the side,
at a slight arch. She is under the desert’s fish tank, her
flawless. I reside here, but only on special occasions can I touch,
amidst the freshly cut grass that line the walls, solid green grass
against the blue, a certain insulation, amidst the iguanas, can I
touch, beyond sound barriers. Yes, I require it, this holding.
elbows, crashing forearms, devastating my own ribcage . . .
type of intimacy usually reserved for animals that only recognize
other animals in the buff. I have taken it all off. I have remained
here for days, in the past, on the carpet. I have placed my naked
belly against the red of it, with my head to the side, arms tucked in
under breasts. I have thought of being overdramatic. I have loved you
before in a room of broken bicycles, somewhere Dutch, with horns
honking outside along the circling roads. I have no need for windows
within this silence. I have recognized my own knuckles.
actions were reoccurring thoughts, as I passed time in public.
and again, on the bus, I was crossing my legs. Again and again, at a
committee meeting, I was crossing my legs. Again and again, I was
allowing people to notice my skirt.
glass. I have allowed for the fluidity of such glass without heat. I
am drowning all purpose. There are items and values caught within
this glass. A pair of scissors, spectacles, and rubber gloves. There
are creatures, besides myself, who bend through this glass, though
never touching. Their fur alive with motion. I have watched the glass
slowly cube and curve outward, allowing entryways for those who are
curious, for those who embody loss, for those who feign silence.
Inside this room, all objects and animals have learned to breathe
glass. It is important to note, in addition, that most are unhappy
with this arrangement; and, I am always sorry, always mistaken.
cannot fully explain my deep personal longing for numbers, charts,
shelves, diagrams, and annotations. I can only compare it to a
Inside, I have spoken with strings and rope that breathe and pulse. I
have spent hours packing and unpacking them. I have sliced them and
they have multiplied. Because I will not use the rope for practical
purposes, I cannot send them away. The rope that unravels into
string, the string that unravels into thread, the thread that is
light, the light that is here, dissipating, in this room, of which I
compose myself, self-consciously so, as I take another breath, it
diseases through my nostrils. And, you live in this?
or ask, as though it were a question and not declarative. And,
live in this. I repeat, and we both do, separately, on other
of the bed as we turn over again.
as is the case with most systems, I encountered several flaws in the
structure. These rooms, initially built to empower my own personal
loss, resulted in the exact opposite by growing abstractly beyond its
means, acres and acres upon itself, sprawling vertically.
Has dismantled into Yes. You mention uncertainty. Yes,
as I speak on the
phone with you, my mind lapsing and folding. Yes, I
with my own voice echoing against Marilyn’s back, full of
tangled around this, blurred to the side, pink, mostly pink, in this
bruised tone, always in this bruised violent pink tone. Yes,
agree, with plants forming circles around my mouth, dying. Yes.
But, wouldn’t it be ideal, to shake away fall-out shelters,
under desks, the smell of burnt chalk, wouldn’t it be
really know another on some certain more intimate level?
foundation sank with pressure breaking glass, while levees broke and
conversational failures pounded to the ground, resulting in panic.
unfortunate. You say, in retrospect, as I find my own seams again,
always finding something again. It is unfortunate,
outside this restructured composure, never really inside. And, we
want so very much for this type of intimacy, this stature of please,
you say, please, and I am unable to, with this
the something, always despite the please of something. And, I am
still inside, still wanting so very much to be pleasing something, so
much missing you. And, it’s true we’re so much more
within these multidimensional planes. We cannot see clearly. With my
own hands. I am stuck with my own hands. Always. No matter how many
stances I take within myself, I am always within, wanting so much to
find someone else sitting there, someone leaning there, someone
reading there, someone stopping me. Someone else beside me.
was the inevitable causality, I understand that now, something similar
to how certain insects trade forms or amphibians grow lost