For the love of shoveling.
It’s like this: Being outside is like living in a snowmans balls, I’m numb from the cold yet pleasured by the feeling. Walking out activates that voice in my head “Go inside” “You’ll get a cold”. But there is no time, I promised myself I would fucking shovel today.
So I begin.
My whole life I’ve had deep troubles knowing where to begin- this is no different, so I start from the middle and work my way out. Reflective of how I need to take myself apart- from the inside, out. Begining with the deepest areas and slowly shaving off each layer until I reach the surface where I can breath from the cleared parking lot.
Each flexing of the muscle is a reminder that I do have a body I must work beside, not against. Should I quit smoking? this is not the time to be thinking about this, alas there is no time like the present when you’re shoving snow to the banks of your lot.
I’ve got this body but I’m pretty sure this is hell. These muscles, this form. Death. I think about death and dying for an hour straight, but not in a sad, makes me want to cry sort of way. I just think. I add to the snowbanks. Maybe I’ll make a snow sofa next to our back porch. This body is hell. My soul is on top of the house watching me strain my shoulder blades to lift that ice chunk from beneath the car. I fly away with the wind, but remain in the body.
Maybe I should think about transfering. where will I live next year? My sister has nice hair.
silence.
shovel.
The neighbors have a plow coming through their lot, suckers. They’ll never know the peace I gain by these slow, conscious movements of my neck, my back, (my pussy and my crack). I have been still and quiet, one with my thoughts.
No filters, no time throw these ideas out for new ones, I just let them flow.
they continue with no regard for inappropriateness or plausibility. They just are.
