My armpits are trying to tell me something. I think they want to be inside-out. Maybe I can take them off, put them in warm water, stretch them, knead them, pull them – put them through a pasta press. Roll them out again. Fold them over each other again and again. Add some fat from my belly to soften them up and keep them from getting too dry and stiff.
Hang them out, well, inside-out, outside over the clothesline. Like those honeycombs hanging from the tree branches, we saw this morning. My poor neglected armpits. How can I show them love? So far, the only attention they get is when they stink, when they are hairy, when I apply deodorant – and sometimes when I look at them in the mirror – “is this too much hair to be a ‘cute feminist’?” Ugh, the bullshit. Aliveness. Can I look to my armpits to learn about aliveness?
I’m going to show my pits more love. Is there a connection between the back of my legs (or legpits) and my armpits? I’ve been noticing a bit of sensitivity in the backs of my knees recently – I wonder if my armpits tried to tell me but my legpits are the translator to interpret so I understand.
Don’t forget to cancel your appointment on Wednesday – can’t afford psychotherapy anymore. Keep getting body-based healing though – your body is aching for it.
Ok – where’s the story? … Food and my body – seems to be a bit of a theme here. Balls of dough – stretching, kneading, contracting, expanding – Janelle, fifteen minutes is a looooonnnngg time. Where’s my talk to write when I need it? Scrunchy, crunchy, slumpy, crusty, too much flour, left out too long – overbaked, undercooked – squishy, over-easy, hardboiled – medium poached. My aliveness is in the medium poachedness of life.
What does a perfectly poached egg do for me in how I run, manage, succeed in my own life? Is grief the runny egg whites?
where rivers are born 