Photograph by Aoi Kotsuhiroi
The syringe needle plunged into my arm with a strange warmth, the heavy liquid slid under my skin without saying anything. It will make its way through my body, it will take care to repair my melancholy.
The nurse had this look of satisfaction of someone who is absolutely right. She was exercising her right to dominate my emotions, crying was forbidden. My mother was one of those psychiatric nurses. I thought she was empty of humanity, she maintained schemas like a soldier, one had to obey her, doing “this” meant that one was like “that”. She Inflicted a relationship of domination not to lose control. She had lost my father. He was gone long before my birth. Thus man was guilty. And I was the witness to this story.
I could only breathe in the escape, it was the only place where I could grow. My mother continues to heal others’ injuries, her daughter is gone a long time ago, she sees her as something stranger to herself, nothing has ever existed. I had this body and I put my life on a scale, too heavy memories to carry and this product in my body that spreads its lie, a sort of suffocation of the memory. I was sitting in the hallway, reading pages of boredom. Faces moved and looked for intersections to cross. I watched this flashing emergency exit, where was the danger?
I kept these dead birds on my shoulder, my body was a branch. I saw death as a pile of sand, a dialogue of dust. Around my mouth I kept these dusts from you, I looked down at my legs covered with white and it seemed to me that all this nudity was harmless. I was suspended to nothing, I lived in that hallway, sitting on that waiting chair, its body and mine discussed, I touched its scars let by pain and distress, they refused to yield, still healing like a new skin that grows after a winter of sleep.
This hallway of medical caresses reeked of death, I couldn’t stay there, waiting for a nurse to pick me up like a bulky package, a kind of waste that can not be recycled. My emotional reactions were outside the norm, it was preferable to say nothing, remain smooth and smile stupidly.
I could go at the end of the hallway and come back, I had eight minutes to make that distance, to move in this time, eight minutes where I should not breathe, walking like a kind of tightrope story, moving this way to take out of me words that I didn’t know, words that had robbed me what I was.
It was an opening of the mouth ceremony, a backward walk that opened on cold dreams.
I was cold in this hallway, sat I re-built white sheets, folds of scents searched for a twilight like an awakening to the envy. I was double up with seams, and my leg became tattooed with a sky of birds.
I waited, I had to arrange my things, first I would put appearances on one side and then shadows on the other. Afterwards I’d decide if I take shadows or appearances. I think that shadows are lighter for the journey and that appearances are superficial anyway. I didn’t want too much things, just few details that I would put in my bag, a kind of transportable reality to feed shadows.
I stood there and rubbed my hands against each other to find a sound that can get me out. A sound of passage that would open that door. Why didn’t he come to see me? He had to worry now not to find me, I should tell him that I was there, that I had kept the keys in my mouth.
I had to wipe my sex, I had this feeling it was crying, I tightened my thighs to hold back its tears, I spoke to it gently. For some time it was crying like a flowing melancholy. Things were going away.
I missed the cherry blossoms.
I wanted to put flowers onto uncertainty,
hanging flowers of uncertainty on every moments that I loved.
Thus, in this perfume, I would hold a kind of scents tree, a tree
that could continue to grow in this uncertainty.
I stroked my lips swollen with pain, the night opened like a wound, I had to leave. Everything collapsed in that chaos, the noise of the storm became an animal screaming its anger. I had lost teeth in the gravels, I was looking for them and found a dream tooth. I put gloves and I sewed a stone on my sex. It was a stone of sex, a stone to grow roots, I had to tie it well, to sew it well so it can grow on me.
I couldn’t remember my name.
Flesh, my flesh,
I went to vomit,
I vomited the wear and tear of nameless things, pieces of wounded
flesh, impressions of lies, circles of end.
I still breathed, more slowly than usual, but I breathed.
My bed was no longer white.
I had cut earthworms and made a sort of mixture.
I was like a mistake,
a wild animal without feathers, with different lifetimes.
At night, I wrote pieces of stories when the sky is gone,
with this memory of impressions, the reason out.
There was chaos in the Sacred.
There were these words,
nothing but words that I hadn’t said,
stains of soiled lives,
and wait for wait.
Withered clouds went round in circles,
they prepared their departure.
I didn’t want to be there anymore,
with this feeling of spending my life in this bed.
I closed my eyes to watch the rain waking up,
handfuls of earth in each hand to hold oblivion.
Women dragged their shopping trolleys to be the first, the first to say, with their mouths dirty of mediocrity: “I was there”.
I watched them pass, like trolleys of meat, their spits of lives hooked to themselves, they no longer felt anything.
I turned my back,
I waited for the noise of the things to go away.
I went to pick flowers to clean the life,
horizons of flowers without affiliations to cover the wounded river,
these icy waters that no longer dream.
The rain seeped into my body, it was invisible, but it was there,
like a necessary functioning.
Drops of water from the time, lost dusts,
a shadow that I connected to my memory,
a dream that I put aside not to get it dirty.
This couple, order and disorder, is a balance with which I dance.
Dogs dug tunnels,
pockets of silence that they brought back up to the surface.
They held chaos in their mouths, something confused that couldn’t find its place.
A high wall of skulls heated by the sun reflected our digestive obligations.
Rotting in a tepid bed because it’s forbidden to be cannibal, it’s not done.
So stay lying down, it’s still necessary to rot a little more…
I was sitting in the car seat for several miles and I was waking up slowly.
I wasn’t cold, it was raining a little and the road was quiet.
Aoi. Fall 2012.