The Body in Quarantine.

One afternoon

Your hands tell you stories you hadn't bothered to read before; the crisscrossing lines it's own strange calligraphy. You remember the scar you got when you fell off a bus. And the other scar right next to it where they put in the needle for the IV.
You read the furrow that has dug itself into the base of ringed fingers. You smile at the seat carved into the side of you middle finger by pens and pencils and ideas that pushed into your skin with the stubbornness of a young child that wants to be carried. Your read the braille of the callouses that sprouted from carrying bags and baggage. You frown at the smoothness that has replaced the tough cliffs of your fingertips. And that is just the hands...

Another evening

The arm flung across the shoulder in a comfortably contorted self-indulgence debates what curve can carry a new mark.
May be on the left rib? Just to poke fun at Adam?
My stomach gurgles with indolence. That will involve finding a rib.
Oh hush
And as we contemplate scarification, my knees let out a sarcastic creak.
The knees are teeming with memory and rebuke. They are permanently darkened by too many falls. Do you really need more scars? Don't you have enough already?

Well those scars were not by choice.

Parts of my body are pointedly silent.
My arm shifts.

The knees creak crankily. A scar is a scar. A pretty one won't make a difference. See look at your poor shin down here-- cut deep by the sharp edge of an enamel bathroom fixture your dropped by mistake.
My left shin is indifferent. Yeah well, things happen. We are ok. Right, right leg?
Hmm? Oh sorry I had fallen asleep. Now I am all tingly.
The feet twitch with caustic candour.
She does that a lot.
The body nods and murmurs agreement.

Hey, I am right here!

We know, comes the chorus.

Late night
The spine nudges me out of sleep.
Sorry I woke you up.
It's alright. I wasn't really sleeping.I was trying to trick myself into quiet.
There is a long beat of silence.
So...
How long do you think we will last?
Longer than we should. Longer than we can bear.
Are you alright?
Yes. No. You?
Not really.

There is a long beat of silence again.

Early morning
I realise the rest of the body had been feigning sleep too.
My eyes spy the weak light through the curtain and close themselves tight.
My body holds on to the night.

My toes whisper a squeaky question in the cocoon of the blanket.
Will we survive?
My feet hug each other in the dark.
My lips chew themselves for comfort.

Something will.

The body stays silent. I give it time.
It needs to learn to live with just me.
The throat heaves out a huff of dry laughter.
We have always lived with just you.

The eyes cannot deny the light anymore.

I am here.

We know.

Lady Lazarus. aka What it feels like to come back to life.

The blog has been dormant, and the fact that I attempt resurrection mid-pandemic is woefully cliche. But, as a wise woman once wrote, cliches are cliches for a reason.

Things happened. Too many things. Too few. Too fast. Not fast enough. In the churning confusion of hitting the ground running, it feels like I had steeled my Self into a tightened knot of kinetic survival-- not standing still enough for the muscles to unlock and the blood to flow. All of this feels abstract, I know.  But what I am trying to say is, there was no room in me for the World. I could not invite it in. It spoke in a startling tongue and hit me too hard with its blinding flares. I hurtled through existence, trying as far as possible to have no more inner spaces for outer worlds to rampage.

But the world, like love, like life, seeps in through the cracks and fills you up no matter how many shutters you bar. There are secret passage ways to the core and my traitorous soul was and is too greedy for life. She was raised on curiosity and recklessness, and she knew now how to fight for what she needed. And she needed me to give in. She needed me to break.

I bleed quicker, now. Burn faster. Hurt easier... perhaps this is healing? When the scar tissue softens and the callouses fall off, so I can be foolish and soft again?
I will not pretend that I am ready for The World According to Me. I will not claim any sense of completion or closure. I cannot promise fidelity and constancy. But I do recognise in me a small twinge, a spark which just might be coaxed into flame.

I am willing to try again. And The World According to Me, just might surprise me pleasantly. I am, as always, in your care.