At times I need space from the self.
When the past is too present and the future too pressing. When I am suffocated by the confines of this body and its place in our history.
I understand the impulse toward the chemical. The desire to push the brain when it will not follow, to numb when it will not settle.
But mostly I find solace in the other.
I am not this person caught in the long, empty hours of a rainy weekend with only my treacherous mind to guide me. I am not on the 728 bus rattling through downtown LA, pressed to the Hispanic woman clutching a bright white orchid beside me. I am not on this gray couch, listening to light classical under these fluorescent lights, waiting for a therapist to emerge from behind that over-sized wooden door.
I am an unnamed, genderless lover. I am fidelity and seduction and the sickness of longing. I am a middle-aged Chief Inspector contemplating the humanity of our darkest impulses over café au lait. I am a young boy slipping between Anywheres, tricked out of lives for the monetary profit of a weak uncle.
I am all these things and nothing. Lives flicked on and off by the turning of a page.
I am a story I write myself. My narrative alive and ever changing. I am more than this one self and the actions that have led to this one present. I am the impulse behind the pen, the brush, the key tick. A moving, nebulous thing. Not the body, but a tale the body weaves. Caught in snapshots, but renewed each time the shutter clicks. Never quite containable. Always, wonderfully, incomplete.
This amigurumi bookworm was made freehand with small amounts of green and black Sugar ‘n Cream cotton and a US 7/4.5mm crochet hook. Glasses are made by curving a paperclip around an over-sized sharpie and held in place with hot glue. The book is made of small scraps of pink and white felt.
The books I reference here are a few of my current favorites:
- Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson
- Still Life by Louise Penny
- The Lives of Christopher Chant by Diana Wynne Jones