(no subject)
martz recommended me to be an RA next year.
and i'm really wanting to do it.
i wrote something very raw tonite. according to anne lamot ("bird by bird"....READ IT), i believe it could be classified as a "shitty first draft." glad i could make her proud.
:D
I sliced my wrist open accidentally when I was nine. The scar is still raised; two straight lines that run parallel to a large, bluish vein embedded in my upturned arm. I remember watching the ragged gash well up with blood from all sides, like a trough filling with water. It took a full minute to walk calmly toward the patio because my numb wound, which was spilling over with a thickly crimson extension of myself, was fascinating me more than the direction of my footsteps. Somehow I ended up in front of my mom, holding my flowing insides out for her to see. And slowly the pain crept from my elbow downward. As if following the path of my veins, the same path my blood was taking to escape from me, it came. And without warning, it exploded in my wrist. The pain vibrated against me, tearing water from my eyes and sobs from my throat. I felt it in my toes and clenched the healthy fingers of my other hand around the lesion.
Pain like that takes up residence in the memory. Its lingering ache remains long after the body has mended what was breached. Perhaps such memories are reminders of the reasons not to risk such injuries again. Maybe they are mementos of those who took the time to heal in the heart the loneliness that injury places in the mind.
and i'm really wanting to do it.
i wrote something very raw tonite. according to anne lamot ("bird by bird"....READ IT), i believe it could be classified as a "shitty first draft." glad i could make her proud.
:D
I sliced my wrist open accidentally when I was nine. The scar is still raised; two straight lines that run parallel to a large, bluish vein embedded in my upturned arm. I remember watching the ragged gash well up with blood from all sides, like a trough filling with water. It took a full minute to walk calmly toward the patio because my numb wound, which was spilling over with a thickly crimson extension of myself, was fascinating me more than the direction of my footsteps. Somehow I ended up in front of my mom, holding my flowing insides out for her to see. And slowly the pain crept from my elbow downward. As if following the path of my veins, the same path my blood was taking to escape from me, it came. And without warning, it exploded in my wrist. The pain vibrated against me, tearing water from my eyes and sobs from my throat. I felt it in my toes and clenched the healthy fingers of my other hand around the lesion.
Pain like that takes up residence in the memory. Its lingering ache remains long after the body has mended what was breached. Perhaps such memories are reminders of the reasons not to risk such injuries again. Maybe they are mementos of those who took the time to heal in the heart the loneliness that injury places in the mind.