Le Corps Malade
I love bodies. I really do. I like the way they look and feel and interact. I like the way clothes change bodies. And personality changes bodies. And photography and art change bodies. I like what bodies mean for society, and our obsession with bodily perfection. Maybe that's why I get so rail thin. I like body parts and the whole shebang, the way skin hangs or stretches. I love pores, the way they look when you get right up close to them and suddenly a single pore is a crater. I love breasts and necks and lower backs. I like the jut of a hip bone and the way a knee or an elbow looks like a butt when you press it together.
I like how our bodies communicate with us.
My body is protesting against something. You know, I think I'm treating it pretty well, but it's really angry. My throat is sore, my head is all full of helium, I have this crazy little rash, and I have these giant welted bug-bites on my feet that are waking me up at night. How am I supposed to break it to my poor body that I have to deprive it of sleep this weekend? That's the fucking salt in the wound--28 hours at the theater, 10 of those teching and another 1 or 2 playing. I think my body might actually kill me. (Which would be awkward considering the circumstances).
I like how our bodies communicate with us.
My body is protesting against something. You know, I think I'm treating it pretty well, but it's really angry. My throat is sore, my head is all full of helium, I have this crazy little rash, and I have these giant welted bug-bites on my feet that are waking me up at night. How am I supposed to break it to my poor body that I have to deprive it of sleep this weekend? That's the fucking salt in the wound--28 hours at the theater, 10 of those teching and another 1 or 2 playing. I think my body might actually kill me. (Which would be awkward considering the circumstances).