(Untitled)
the memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
- - from Rhapsody on a Windy ( Read more... )
I've been thinking lately of athletes and models -- how their lives are their bodies. How the religion of a long-distance runner is to just consistantly jog, and they choose to put their minds in a place that is outside of their body, while at the same time being so aware of it. And models, how for photos and sculptures and works of art, they are so aware of how their body appears; they know how to make their body look kind or vulnerable or intimate or really anything they want it to be.
And yes, there's that inherant maturity in finding thiat marriage between self and body, it is terrifying. And even in the literal sense, when at some point you notice that they are your,/i> hands on that typewriter, your hands pushing the hair off your face, or touching someone else, or instinctually squinting at something unpleasant. It is growth, one that can interestingly be found in different stages in almost everyone; something that cannot (or should not) be expedited.
It's funny, I always have a bit of nervous apprehension in commenting on your entries, too. It's that I want you to know that I am reading and appreciating, but I sound like such a mess most of the time.
My friend Eric and I were online-friends before we became close offline, and sometimes when we are very jokingly cutting down one another's ego, he says "you know, you're not as intimidating as your livejournal icon suggests" and I stand with my hands on my hips and we laugh and laugh.
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