Monday, April 2, 2018


I went to the show at The Met, Like Life, Sculpture, Color, And The Body (1300 - Now), this weekend and it is show everyone should see. I could go on and on about it but I'm too busy today sadly... If you haven’t seen it yet, go. It’s dense, full and it makes you feel all sorts of things but more than that it makes you think things. Animal things. Fleshy, pinprick things. Sex. Death...

We are just vessels on this earth and who knows what for or why.

I have been thinking about the body in other ways as well. My own and others.

My own because I have to do something that makes me think of it as a thing. An absorbing pad of water, muscles and veins which ceaselessly pumps and moves and lives.

Others because the presence or absence of another person can feel like a blessing or a curse. It’s strange the twinged awareness you can feel when someone is missing not just in thought but in flesh.

We all have bodies. We all want bodies. We all hate bodies. We all hurt bodies.

I’m having a bit of brain/body detachment as I have too much to do to fully write but bloop. There were some thoughts. Go see the MET show! And look at yourself naked in a full-length mirror (alone) at least once in a while. It’s strange. Wild.

The Opposite of the Body, by Robin Ekiss

Of the face in general, let me say it’s a house
built by men and lived in by their dreams.

When you’ve been plucking eyes
out of the floorboards as long as I have,

you’ll see this, just as you’d see
the patience it requires

to render an eyebrown, half an hour
and an understanding of architecture.

When you see your body,
think its opposite: not the bridge,

but its lighted face reflecting the water,
some other city as seen from a ship—

your forehead, once ponderous,
now light as umbrellas—

still not beautiful enough to make time stop.
The pleasure in being a woman’s

knowing everything’s borrowed
and can’t be denied,

as when you take apart a clock,
there’s always another inside.