hagiography

the autogeography of a no/body

May 18

breathless

I want to read this but my head won’t stay still; my breath flashes in and out of my body between gulps of coffee and half-swallowed ideas. Maybe I should dance, or sing – singing’s good, except when I do it. Can’t sing. Can’t find my pitch. Don’t understand where the music should be coming from. Sometimes it’s high in my head, in the top part, behind my eyes. EEEEEEEE. Sometimes it’s buried in my chest, under my sternum, struggling to come out. AAAAHHHH. Sometimes, but not very often, it begins down in my womb, I think, buried in my pelvis. UURRGGHH. Can’t sing. Can’t join the bits together.

There’s a man, he plays the mouth organ, keeps it in his desk drawer, on occasion, when he’s pausing, between this thing and that, he gets it out. He knows where to start and where to end, how to breathe it in and out so it sounds melodic. He can breathe music, like a fish can breathe water. He can play a tune.

Let me dance. All I have is this contracting body, twisting, turning, stamping on the beat. I can hear the beat. I can always hear the beat; in the air, in/visible bird wings, up and down, folded and straight, this constant movement, because my head won’t stay still. Breathless. I am breathless.

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