peptides in heaven

I was fifteen when a car first hit me, my cunt fell just below the engine’s great genuflection. I was told later that this had saved my pelvis. For what, I didn’t ask. Childbirth, I suppose, the hypothetical child with its smooth pale head crowning.

Thought is the longest form of foreplay, and I squander it now on the bright, twitching surfaces of the digital world, where nothing is ever consummated through the body, every desire now ends in another desire, my appetite reproduces asexually, a thousand, a million! small provocations, none of them, resembling the trembling of a leg.

Crowning is a strange word to describe birth. Velvet robes, ermine - that a kingdom should begin between a woman’s legs feels both excessive and obvious. The monarchy of the womb works upside down from every other monarchy I know of. Power descends from one heir to another, birth, at least in the normal sense, rises. The child arriving from below, deposing nothing but the mother's solitude. Revolution, then! The hypothetical child emerging from my cunt in a small wet coup!

Have been thinking about my mother all week. This arouses sadness and yet inexplicable hatred inside of me. I give birth to it during the night and find myself unburdened.

Desire for anything is badly measured by binary questions. I never know what I want until I am halfway through wanting it. I do not want children, or it may be more accurate to say that I had never wanted a child at the exact moment anyone asked me whether I wanted one, which may not even be the same thing, not even close, put to it cold. At eleven I don't want a tomato but maybe at noon I would kill for tomato. But obviously, nobody consequently describes me as a woman who has always dreamed of tomatoes. Desire is fluid, always in flux and reflux, my dear Step-Mother.

Björk’s music is pure sex, pure mathematics, pure. It’s unadulterated and without flaw.

My life has always been one long continuous afternoon, pale and without appetite, the sun forever caught on the same corner of my bed, as faithful as an old dog, all the dust motes going up and down, up and down, the entire stupid ascension of them, seasons and years spent suspended in a single beam of light.

Woman finds herself oscillating between four and fifteen, unable to settle on an age to inhabit, which is its own kind of illness, illness here being used loosely, or not.

Clive James once described Arnold Schwarzenegger as looking "like a brown condom full of walnuts" and I think it’s beautiful, the absurdity of it! Take it at face value! I find that images become cumbersome and tedious, derivative, when analyzed too closely.

I thought of a great many things as my double at fifteen. The dust motes floating, the emaciated stray cats outside gnawing at steel pipe, all spine and asshole, my own mother, aging away quickly, believing that her suffering was somehow keeping mine at bay, unconsciously of course, she would kill herself if she became aware, as a rich man becomes aware of the psychoanalyst, tepidly. I liked to think that if she just endured enough humiliation at the discount grocery store, some larger catastrophe would be diverted from my life, redirected toward hers instead, the way lightning is redirected toward the tallest object in a field. Lightning rod Mother. Saint Mother. If the cashier was rude to her perhaps I would not get cancer. If her wrists hurt from the bags perhaps mine would remain beautiful and useless. Petty revenge.

Magical thinking; most maternal love; primitive system.

Peptides in heaven; Jesus. Heaven is the body of fantasy.

I still knock on wood, though I hold no belief in the small fairies who are meant to live there. It is an agnostic’s kiss blown toward luck. I permit myself that much superstition.

One spring my mother prescribed vitamins for what she called my low moods. My piss turned a magnificent yellow, almost operatic, and for several weeks this was the most vivid thing in my life. I looked forward to sitting naked from the waist down and watching this little sun escape me, obscene and chemical. I would hold it until my bladder became painful, a little swollen animal behind my cunt. An animal pacing behind the bone. This was, I think, my first experience of control that I mistook for pleasure. Or pleasure discovered inside an act of control, I am no longer sure which came first, or whether the distinction matters at all. To govern the animal of the body is to assume, briefly, some other creature's view of oneself, a birds-eye tenderness, looking down at your own suffering from a great and merciful height, control is the animal pawing behind your cunt.

Children should not interfere with the natural course of things. Your mother should smoke, she was destined to smoke, she was destined to die from lung disease/heart disease/disease of the soul.

Some distinctions sounds sexual. I do not understand why sex requires a second person - even conceptually. Masturbation is sexual. Arousal is sexual. Certain fabrics are sexual. A peach can become sexual under specific conditions. Also, i.e; American Pie. Reading this back, I recant, a peach resembles a woman’s ass, the pie - a cunt, the fabric - a caress. There is always a second person.

My left breast is slightly larger than my right and if I sleep without underwear I dream more violently.

I lived among children among children without the vulgarity of hope, which I had discarded years earlier, for reasons.

I liken the image of Jesus in my consciousness to that of my mother. Wretched, cruel thing —- my mind.

Haven’t worn socks to university in four weeks now. There is a freedom in the toes being bare within sandals or flats. The freedom which resembles my violent dreams when I fall asleep naked.

When the car struck me, my face appeared for an instant in the windscreen, distorted by its curvature. Enormous mouth, enormous eyes, the involuntary self-portrait, which is always more truthful than the deliberate one, look at how ugly you are in the face of death, there it is, you are candid and real and truly grotesque. There is a whole aesthetics of the accident, largely forgotten by my youth, but this, I remember.

There is something very intimate about being nearly killed by a machine. It knew nothing of my mother, my future children, my left breast, or my depression. It was, in that sense, perfectly innocent. Pure.

Trauma is always the easiest answer and for that reason the least interesting one, and so, I invent. Lie.

As I grew older and people began to neglect asking me any questions, I discovered in myself an appetite I had not expected, I was wanton for questions. This is difficult to admit because loneliness is one of the human conditions that which becomes more humiliating the more it is described, the more it is asserted, divulged, worn. Hunger can be noble. Sexual deprivation can be erotic in itself. Loneliness merely makes a woman pathetic and disengaged from the world around her.

A spoon too large to use is still, categorically, a spoon, and what that implied about me, won’t tell you. Lol.

Bézout is inside of my head. He jabbers on and on and will not shut up. I am having a conversation with him but you cannot call a speech a conversation, the recipient is the audience not the individual, I try telling this to him but he will not let me slip a word in. I feel myself outside of the warm, wet, thumping party. I am at the window, the party is for me, but no one will cease their temporary happiness to let me in. Let me in.

Had just seen a horse urinate. Amazing. I stood there longer than I should have, watching, almost embarrassed, not for the horse but for myself. I wonder what it would be like to move through the world without this constant doubling, being both the one who lives and the one who watches the living.

I have always preferred being looked at to being known, though I have begun to suspect this distinction was largely theoretical, perception is hypnotizing, yet the drug of understanding is much more tantalizing. In the suburbs of the fortune teller’s mind, she pulls me in, she tells me I will live a great life, without romance, without ambition, meandering through halls that resemble labyrinths, yet, labyrinths I find are safer than a single wide corridor. They have corners.

A woman cried because she had witnessed it, the falling of my cunt.

An ex-boyfriend once covered my bare legs with a blanket and tucked it beneath. My mother used to do this when I was little, before she became a lightning rod.

I only remember the severity of the man’s eyes, who held my head in the middle of the street. I remember his thumbs just beneath my ears, making tiny circles, his eyes were a deep blue, or maybe they were brown, I may have improved them in my memory. I wanted to put my mouth against the soft centre of his palm. Not sexually. Or, sexually. I don't know. The distinction seemed useless, had just been hit by a Toyota. It seemed pedantic to decide. Stay with me, he said, multiple times. Strange phrase. Leaving hadn’t crossed my mind, my legs limp and all that. I remember wondering whether his hands hurt. They were beautiful hands. They had forgotten themselves in the very act of holding, they seemed to grow a womb, a subconscious, an empathy reserved only for me. I almost asked whether he had children. I almost asked whether he liked peaches soft or hard. I wanted to ask him something utterly unnecessary so that for one more minute his hands could remain in my life.

Fasting, cinema, chess, revenge and sex all delay satisfaction, principle of most things. I wonder whether happiness, too, depends on a certain postponement.

Recursion fascinates me. To have an affect on the succeeding object or the succeeding lover. What would it be like. Recursion holds true for me at least, I am everything I have ever experienced. Yet, to dilute myself to my experiences feels overly wanton, stereotypical, the cheerleader shoving her breasts in the quarterback’s face, “sex”.

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Ping pong balls, no cohesive thought, ramble, ramble, breathless. A kiss for luck. Thank you for reading.