Sunday, April 22, 2012
I keep writing about women being abused. Not verbal or neglect or emotional, but physical with scars everyone can see. I don't know what this says about me or my thought process or the story I'm trying to work out in my head, but that's the narrative that I keep coming back to. I am not being abused, but I am aware of its consequences, of the way it seeps out of one person's rage and into all of the bits around it, a stream that fills and covers the rocks while also soaking the feet of dirt below it. I haven't been writing as much as I have before, but I have been looking through old notes, old fragments of stories filed away. I am doing the math; adding and subtracting and creating these dense equations of fictions old and new. These muscles are no longer toned, but I am working them slowly, pausing, then working them again until they remember. Until they recognize the motions and are able to create new ones of their own.