Monday, June 11, 2012

Essay on Shame #10

Mistake-free me! She looks just like me, except she doesn't pick at her skin as much, and she doesn't have that vertical line at the inside corner of her left eyebrow. That line comes from fretting, and she never frets because she just naturally never makes a mistake. Never wants to. She only wants what's right, what she approves of. There's no stadium in her head; she fits right into herself, her brain fills her entire skull, like the nut in a nutshell. Packed full, nutritionally sound, synonymous: she's all self, all satisfied.

I would like to be her. It would mean never changing, never learning, never striving, being already perfected, sort of like the human version of the poem C.D. Wright refers to in Cooling Time, "the poem that would in effect allow me to stop writing." I don't have a clear sense of how she'd deal with other people, since her borders would be so snug and firmly set, so unlikely to ever impinge. It would mean sitting in the center. Right now it sounds very appealing.

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