I am a six-limbed creature missing two arms and two legs.
Occasionally, I am indiscriminately starving.
This can make life a bit difficult.
It’ll be easier to focus on other things in a few hours.
Thank god for readily available entertainment.
Oh God, Selma Blair’s an amazon queen.
Busy writing. Possibly failing anatomy. Explored an art store today and apparently lost the ability to write in grammatically correct sentences.
I’m lonely and it’s fucking stupid. I should be happy to have friends in this wasteland of a state, but I’m not. I could call at least three people right now and go play video games or get coffee or whatever. I don’t want to see any of them. I want to see a couple of girls and a couple of boys back west who know me well enough that if the FBI ever recorded our conversations, I’d go to prison for life.
My tattoo’s healed just fine. The urge for another is already kicking.
Get me the fuck out of here.
Or not. I’m rambling because there’s nothing better to do.
At least it’s raining.
I’m running to nowhere. The oasis on my screen isn’t getting any closer. Sweat cuts into my eyes. It glues cheap basketball shorts to the back of my legs. My face lost all feeling twenty minutes ago. Oxygen’s a luxury on par with elective plastic surgery.
Three. Two. One.
I yank the red STOP tag from the front of the treadmill. It doesn’t hurt when my knees give and jointly slap against the belt. Clinging to the grips like a drowning man, I will myself not to puke up a gallon of water and bile. Chances are about fifty-fifty either way.
Adam comes in as I’m stepping out of the shower. His mouth is set in neutral lines.
“Did that make you feel better?” He asks. It’s not antagonistic, just curious, even if he already knows the answer.
One of the reasons we’ve always gotten along is his love for hearing other people talk. I wipe enough steam off the mirror to see my face. Nothing’s improved. “In a masochistic way, yes.”
A wry smile pulls at his mouth. “You would have gone for the vodka under the sink three years ago.”
“It’s still not out of the question.”
He sits down on the toilet, larger than life. Size fifteen feet hit the wall before his legs are halfway extended. “It’s her decision to make.”
“Some warning would have been nice.”
A Gallic shrug. In my head, he mutters moi, je n’en sais rien. In reality, “We knew she was sleeping with someone in Seattle.”
I squeeze water from my hair four times before it stops dripping down my shoulder. The mirror’s face is opaque once more. “Elena could have an orgy with every man from here to Toronto and I wouldn’t blink. When one of them proposes to her, it’s a topic for discussion.”
“She’s always come back.”
Observations: Chinups suck. Pullups suck more.
Today’s Totals (3 circuits)
72 pushups
6 kipping pullups
9 chinups
30 prisoner squats
15 jump squats
40 dips
15 lunges (each leg)
9 burpees
45 calf raises
1:30 suspended plank
3:00 heavy bag work
Notes:
+2 squats
+2 jump squats
+2 lunges (each leg)
+20 lbs. to calf raises
Future thoughts in no particular order.
Learn street Mandarin.
Finish another book.
Start rock climbing.
Meditate.
Finish the half dozen books sitting around.
Watch Latter Days.
Cook more.
Stay on workout schedule.
Find some peace.
Most of it is easily accomplished. Some things are easier said.
It takes five cuts to reach the heart. Slow, careful slices. More than one counter has been ruined by a pomegranate’s generous amounts of blood. A failure by centimeters could collapse a chamber or puncture any number of the treasures within.
Thick flesh. Red fruit. White webbing cradling each oval aril.
I eat the seeds four at a time. Each is smooth and elegant on the tongue.
They pop under pressure against the roof of my mouth. Release in subtle movements.
This is worship, remembrance of a sacrifice. Bittersweet.
Relics of a sleeping goddess. My handmade trail to the underworld.
I was getting off a minute ago when I looked down and realized one of my rainbow suspenders had ended up wrapped around my leg.
I had to stop and laugh at the pretty picture it made.
Pretty much settles that whole ‘I’m fucking crazy’ angle, huh?
What will my reaction be the first time I’m told to slice into a cadaver?
Reading Body Of Work has brought up a lot of difficult but important questions. Christine Montross’ experiences in the anatomy lab were meant to prepare her for becoming a doctor, not a mortician, but she philosophizes about death and its connection to our lives in the same way I do. Hours after dissections, she dreamt about her cadaver, Eve, sleeping alongside her or being torn apart beneath the flow of water as she desperately tried to sew the pieces back together.
In many ancient civilizations – as well as some modern ones – those who dealt with the dead were classified as ‘untouchables’ for both physical and spiritual reasons. Renaissance-era anatomists speak of ‘necessary Inhumanity’ in their work.
One day I’ll be paid to do things to a body that most would see as the acts of a serial killer. Does that make me untouchable?
On a brighter note, I remembered the intercostal muscles surrounding the ribs today because I thought of Quentin Costa from Nip/Tuck. It took every effort to not chuckle over my plastic model and attract the quirked eyebrow of Professor Evans.
Obviously the solution to this melancholy is to console myself with pictures of Rhona Mitra being a badass.
Note: I am not responsible for her stealing your girlfriend, making you reenact rape, or using questionable interrogation techniques.
I wish I had a girl here with me right now who would stand naked in my room and let me point out all the landmarks of her bones. It would make studying a hell of a lot easier.
The appointment for my third tattoo is on Friday at Metamorphosis, Indiana’s premiere body modification studio. It requires a phone call ahead, a deposit earlier in the week, and a drive up to the north side of town. I printed out the art I’m going for, which I have to drop off on Wednesday. They’ll give me a price estimate and prepare the outline ahead of time. The woman I spoke to on the phone was pleasantly enthusiastic.
Hyacinth. The first tattoo I ever wanted. It’s large, though, in comparison to the first two I had done. Along the line, collarbone to collarbone. A slight curve to match the body structure. All black ink, like the others. The hyacinth plant is associated with rebirth and New Year’s celebrations during the Spring Equinox. Hyacinth of Greek mythology was the lover of Apollo, my namesake’s twin. Apollo made the Hyacinth from his spilled blood. The Hyacinthia [named for the hero] was one of Sparta’s principal festivals – Spartans interrupted their own wars to return home and remember his death.
“When he beheld Hyacinths’ agony Apollo was struck dumb. He sought every remedy, he had recourse to cunning arts, he anointed all the wound, anointed it with ambrosia and with nectar; but all remedies are powerless to heal the wounds of Fate.” -Bion, Poems 11
Of course, it’s also my safeword.
Sometimes I want to get tattoos related to my two favorite myths; that of Hades and Persephone and the story of how the gods split a world of four-armed, two-headed beings in two. Such beings became humans, forever searching for their other half. No clue how I’d do either, though. A quote of Sappho’s is already in the works.
I’m looking forward to it with a slight tinge of nerves, as per always. It comes before doing anything permanent to one’s self, after all. I’m also thinking of all the anatomy terms I’ve learned. The needle pushes the ink deep into the epidermis to the dermis, where it will be relatively protected from the daily shedding of skin. If it’s done right.
Time for another book and more Xena. Gods Behaving Badly was amazing. The next one is called Body of Work: Meditations on Mortality From The Human Anatomy Lab. Non-fiction, looks brilliant.
Have a good night, everyone.
