the sun is shining. this morning it caressed my back as i marked essays at the dining room table. now it strokes the right side of my face, as i sit at my desk. it casts a reflection of me in the monitor. i'm wearing glasses. i continue to startle myself, but at least i've started forgetting that they're there (when they're there, because often they're not). i don't want to become too dependent on seeing things clearly.
S told me a nice story last week about how he likes to have morning blurriness before he puts his contact lenses in. i imagine his partial blindness as a comfortable nest, a waking up, a ritual of not-yet-ready-to-see-the-day.
always nice to re-frame what might otherwise be thought of as our body's failings.
today, in the sun once more, i sip coffee and talk about other body failings, about a friend's negotiation of illness, medication, and feeling well. he chose not to take the medication because of its side effects - a choice with consequences, but one that feels right. a choice i've not yet had to make. my body feels trivial and small next to his.
elsewhere today: i read about death (a friend who lost a friend). i hear about a HIV zine that used to appear next to dancefloors in the 90s, with rants about being sick and skinny and dying. i talk to someone about her menstrual body aches. and all these stories remind me that we're all falling apart. this is incredibly comforting. because it's not pleasant to feel like you're the only one falling apart. so together we can laugh as our organs give way and our limbs fall off. together we can extend our bodies or not (with pills, glasses, or other apparatus). together we can dance to this:
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