Please forgive me, sweet, understanding reader: I’ve written a lyrical essay. It was a practice in being pretentious, but honestly I really enjoyed it. I’ve been thinking a lot about how sincerity in art is subversive, and so I thought maybe telling my story in this way might be kinda
Punk.
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The Art
Of Walking Home
A Sacred Affair–one not without sacrifice, compromise, stockings torn at the thigh. But I am to write about greatness. About my body—bones, I’d say, the greatest of all mismanaged efforts. I have even heard that ribs can float. “We”, all conceptual of course, stand on faulty wiring. Look here. See a neck arranged for tender strangulation. Look there—see a hip set wide to welcome in. To force, assuredly, out. I like leaving–I’ve done it exceptionally for 23 years. Only and entirely. I pride myself on standing easily. “Stay.” And maybe I would. It is novacane, still.
Steps echo in my bones if I listen. They hit every joint and stay there, rattling. A tiny electric shock–enough to rid the bottom bunk of spiders as I hoped so long to do. I know what it means to walk home backwards. To be a girl reduced to want is expected–to be a girl who wants, condemned. Like blown glass, say. A warm, melting container. To hold–to be of use in fragility and beauty. Above all else, utterly clear. Above all else, somehow still restrained.
If, truly, there is “nothing good to see in the city” that is where I’ll go. Anorexic at 18, then Anorexic at 20. Anorexic at 23 but with an asterisk. I went to The Met alone. I stood in the middle, and wept. I go every year. Every day, even; alone and trying to get somewhere. Outside, she shuffled a while in her purse. I offered to buy it for her. A stranger. She laughed and found a card. I went to The Met alone.
I was eight when I decided to be skinny. It felt how church was meant to–wrapping my hand around the width of my arm, my leg, my waist. This Is My Body. It Will Be Given Up For You. It didn’t matter who, it never mattered. “You” was enough to empty out. Sincerity is scary, so instead I aimed for agreeable. Sincerity is scary, and so I starved myself ironically. Irony will kill me, certainly, but I still hope to be in love. Inconsequential is fine so long as I am skinny. I won’t write a thing I’ll just listen. I went to the Met alone. I cried in the middle and nobody really minded.
I think I could be happy there. North of here, and walking, still. Never riding home–though the offer is there. I resent most shoes but these are fine. I’ve worn them right on out.
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Cheers, lovely reader.
I love you tons.
Take care.
Girl Seeking Peanut Butter 