Circles and Grit

I am she-who-does-not-see-beyond-her-fingers. Who cuts and pulls and bends until there is blood filling the straights of her cuticles. But I do not want- I do not mean-- But birds tear out their feathers when there is nothing better to do; dogs run in circles when there is no other shape to make; and the smaller sharks at the zoo will go round and round, bumping their nose against the edge of the tank until there is a little red bloom at the tip and some girl above calls one "Rudolph" and thinks it is special and hers.


I am trying to make sense of this and make sense of things like beetles and--but--
wet feet. Wet and scratchy feet. I think I'd be ok if they were smooth, but the ruddy, one way feet that are so good for grabbing and pu--
I do not mean to interrupt myself so much. It is certainly not something I do often. But it is the only way I can seem to keep myself from saying things. But what isn't written on paper is still written on brain, and there isn't room for fresh ink up there, not with all the scribbling I do.

You think it is when you do not write that it is called reality, she whispers, barks, or bites. But it is only that another is writing about you then.

Have I begun, then? Shit. I hope not. I must try to keep my brain behind the edge of my fingernails and learn only through scraping and scratching. But-
Goodness--so many holes. I cannot bear to leave them empty, but I cannot possibly fill them.
What is at the forefront of my mind will always be infected (contaminated? but pleasantly contaminated) by what I hold in the back of my mind. Don't keep raw meat above vegetables; don't keep bloody thoughts above fresh ones.

I am losing.
I am writing and I am drawing and this is how I am beginning to suspect I am losing.
It is not that I am so much as what I am [writing and drawing.] I am beginning to-
I looked over an edge today. You w-
I could not when I was asked. Now I can do nothing but. How wretched and silly of me.
I was hungry most of this morning. I think I was hungry. I'm going to say I was hungry. And I mean what I don-
SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAArs.

I hate losing.
I love losing. I've gotten some good drawings out of losing. But it isn't enough; it's excess. It's waste. It's steam.
I've never lost like this before. When I lose, I lose in fire--I burn up. Leave my legs out on the porch when I go to bed. Shed my skin six times between the sheets and let the eye caps fill up with ashes before I peel those off, too.
But this is-
At least-
. .. ..... written upon.

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire. Roland Barthes, "Talking," A Lover's Discourse (1977, trans. 1978)


I cannot tell you how much I love seeing your face for perfectly no reason at all.