uncovering

I found this in an old diary -- thought I'd share . . .

If I were made of wax, there would be knives that cut me deep, then heat applied to melt on top, to make it cling to my skin, and become an embedded, absorbed wound. These are, of course, my stretch marks. They map my body, and were bourn cut deep inside of me. There is a scaly, soft surface to them each. They shine if the light hits just so. But there is no smooth, uninterrupted caress over them. Like scales, there is tension, and a soft sticking that makes your finger stop, get caught.

Stretch marks are not for gliding over, by eyes or hands or tongues. The prickle brings the outside in, plunges you momentarily into the deep wound that exists through a myriad of colors, mediated by flesh and light. Some purple, mauve, crimson, pearl, iridescent. Some long and jagged, some fading into nothing. Directional, relational, and some just planted like islands -- under my arm, where my hips and stomach meld, underneath my heavy breasts, like fish collecting where it is cold -- or rather, snakes converging on hot spots. The hissing is inside.

self-reflection

too early in this blogger's game. i'm having growing pains -- i feel like i've never done this before. i had a livejournal, and its clusterfuck annoyed me. i like the idea of this being anonymous, even though i've already told two friends i have a blog. i have a blog. didn't imagine myself saying that sentence. and that's the self-conscious what-words-am-i-putting-out-there cricket.

i got a new bra. oh thank god, it kind of fits. enough for me to get rid of that back clasp underwire bullshit. that i wore everyday. ugly and "nude" colored (not nude enough, in my opinion), that bra got worn down by my merciless tits. i know the feeling. shirley asked me what size i am. good question. And funny that phrase, what size I am. 38D. No, probably 40D. Or 38DD. Or E or EE? Those seem like fic-tit-ious sizes. Or mythic sizes. The goddesses had tits that large -- flapping, expansive tits that came 4 and 5 to a pair. Pair. Pear. Pare.

Yeah, it's troubling that i have no clue how much fabric my tits will consume. i got a clue how much sweat they'll produce, pain they'll inflict, confusion they'll arouse, or eyebrows they'll raise. I got sirred a lot in Florida. Oh bless those strangers.

So I got a flat front now. Well, far from flat, but at least uniform to some degree. And they hang now, but they seem to hang with more carelessness, with the disregard of something more naturally my body. i understand that disregard is not the preferred term for embodiment, but it is for my current survival.

kisses. chest press.
regress?

The opposite of

Altruism is pleasure. Satisfaction. Well, according to 5 out of my seven dinnermates. Good lord, what discussions ensued. I didn't realize so many of my dear friends didn't believe in altruism. I hadn't thought of it, honestly. But the argument went that if someone does something for self-gain -- experiencing pleasure, satisfaction -- then that action ceases to be altruistic. And Eric believes that every person's behavioral instincts are hardwired with self-gain. Hence, no good deeds go unrewarded for the doer.

Andrew said he didn't want to live in a world in which there was no altruism. He was drunk. Most everyone was drunk. But, nonetheless, or perhaps because, they held their beliefs firmly. I don't know. I'm thinking about opposing and complementing. Charity and pleasure. Sacrifice and satisfaction. Giving and fulfilling. Sounds kinky to me. And I tend to embrace kink.

Speaking of which, my lap top is breathing hot air like a hungry cunt. You know, pulsing with heat that could easily turn into steam. It's not getting me off, but you know, Lap Top. I'm just saying it makes sense in between my legs.

More on family later. Sex and family -- it also, strangely, makes sense.

Begin at the

who can find beginnings nowadays? One story unfurls into ten, many of which could reach all the way back into . . . nothing or everything. I find myself quickly getting into those equivocal thoughts.

Trauma is on my mind tonight. That word's changed for me in the past year. Before, trauma was extreme, untouchable, and, hopefully, rare. I thought of it in short blasts because acknowledging a trauma (like depression) that went on for three years just sounded horrific. Nevertheless, I thought it meant (like depression) a surrendering and suffering. In short, helplessness.

I've opened up to acknowledging more frequent traumas, and softening the word so that I have a place to reside with it, or in it. Trauma is still a marking, an impression on my body and in my mind. It's mostly unconscious, I think. But it doesn't immediately lead to scarrification. I think of it as a kind of slow absorption, and I think I can perhaps acknowledge it, chart it, I don't know.

But honestly, it makes sense to me that a body goes through traumas more regularly than we realize.

Shifts in friendship, place, or perspective -- for better or worse -- are traumatic. They require a drastic physical/emotional/psychological adaptation.

Most of all, I like the idea that being open to recognizing trauma might give me some time to breathe in it. And not suffocating is key, in general.