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Monthly Archives: March 2014

Laying the foundation is the most difficult step. Measuring and leveling, again and again. Everything needs to be so certain. My body is not a male body except in the sense that it is male. The box I sometimes check. I look awful with long hair and all the best dresses dip in the wrong tight way. It’s no different than everything else you know about me, still and glittering in the air. And even were I strong and clear, someone like a sky to fly in, I still know you saw me first down a path, thought a thin boy was shuffling toward you. I place cement blocks and above them I will place the floor, the walls, a place to stay.

– T Fleischmann

One of my favorite things about this book was its bookiness, the way it built itself out of itself. Everything moved steadily, looking back over the shoulder with a certain rhythm. So much loveliness. The self building the self from the self of the house to the sense of the body as a room as an art form as a gallery display. On and on. B and I had a small conversation this evening wherein we both listed off the books that we’re intending to read, both lists ending in on and on because it just keeps coming, the emergence of books that make me want to read them again. When I was a kid, that was my habit—I’d get to the end of the book and I’d turn right around and read it again. In my car, I’ve been listening to the same CDs for over a year. I like to know all the words. It becomes a certain rhythm, certain, I mean to say, in the sense of knowing oneself. In building oneself out of the gallery all around, taking it in and exhaling it. How dare you sit on my body. I’m art. Look at me! I’m god damn art. – says the body.