Saturday, June 11, 2016

Simone Weil 42

We read, but also we are read by, others. I made my appointment with the head doctor at a hospital in the woods. I told my story, not as I wanted to, but according to his questions. When our Q&A had ended, he said I was “a troubled young woman.” I needed to figure things out; otherwise, this would just keep happening. Repetition as another skinny dip in the acid bath. “Did you ever go skinny dipping?” my daughter asks. I suspect I did, but don't remember. That's something you would remember, she says. What I recall is that adrenaline is an engine that burns the literal heart. He had me down as narrative: beginning, middle, and catastrophic end. During yesterday's meditation, I untied laces of the knot that pushed against the top wall of my skull. I unlaced and unlaced, but it didn't come undone. In the other doctor's office, I sat for half an hour at a time, finding no words amid my words' chaos. “You just needed someone to sit with you,” that doctor said.

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