Be glad I didn't put the other image of shingles here
If you’re over the age of 10, you’ve already had chickenpox. You probably even have a few scars from scratching the hell out of those itchy, red bumps. Once you’ve had the virus, it lies dormant in nerve tissue near your spinal cord and brain. Weird, right? And later in your adult life if you undergo a period of extreme stress, the sleeping virus can re-emerge from your nerves as painful sores called shingles. Shingles are also a kind of overlapping tile used on a roof to protect a house from moisture. Shingles, my body, homonymous.
Shelter
Be not flooded with regret
Harden thyself
from elementals
A week ago, after a discussion about how to divorce in Brazil, I noticed I had rubbed the base of my right thumb and it was turning bright red and felt raw. My right shoulder and arm muscles had been impossibly tight and sore for weeks and no matter how much I stretched or slept or medicated, I couldn’t relieve the tension. I’d been working long hours, coming home late with just enough time to eat then sleep not to mention that the daily grind on the Metro forces ones body into awkward positions around awkward people. Coming out of work late one night, I slip on ice and overextend my right knee. My gym pass collects dust, eating habits suffer, six months after a spring separation, divorce is discussed and nerve tissue does a wet-dog shake: sore, red bumps push out in a heart formation at the base of my thumb (along with two other singular bumps, a centimeter apart). I’m on bedrest.
___
Here are some titles of blog posts from the last year that I started writing but never finished or published: “Our Skin is Silky Smooth” (about being the ‘perfect’ woman), “Poet Porn” (unfortunately I’ve forgotten what this brilliant non-piece was about), “Being Honest” (more on this later…), “Two-Dimensional Cages” (some late-night, drunk insight on William Blake), “Have you see the ____ ? or Meme Fatigue” (on getting paid to follow then reuse internet memes in advertising), “A Bit Callous” (a pretty cool abecedarian poem I wrote…hmm, may still publish), “Sometimes She’s Boring” (me trying to pretend that my life was boring)…
I tried for a very long time to express the confusion I wrestled with about the end of a relationship with the man I married. Now, when I see gossip magazines and other media taking down young Hollywood newlyweds for their fast, failed marriages, I have genuine empathy for those who believed their love would last forever. Immediately following my separation, I tried (in vain) to understand what it was exactly about the institution of marriage that was impossible to uphold (many things, but that’s not why I separated), then I got stuck on what was wrong with modern feminism (many things, but that’s not why we broke up), then I felt frustrated with leftist media (I’m tired of reading the same, old lines of reasoning, mirrors of the right, but that’s not why we walked away) and so on and so forth. I even got pissed at Québeckers and my work and also had all kinds of fun, imbibed wine in cool places, made good friends …
then, around the holidays, I just felt really fucking sad. The dissolution of a relationship is comprised of thousands of intimate moments between two people, it’s an answer for which there’s no clear formula. Mixed in those moments are expressions that you don’t recognize, inner voices that don’t make any sense, yearning and love that drives you to drink and act out in extreme ways, suffocation you impose synchronously as the heavier your chest, the more weight you apply in return.
As one does, I’m writing with my left hand and right hand, the right has a numb thumb. Do you think there’s something symbolic about having a numb thumb? Could it be that my arm was too often in that stretched out, desk position as I answered emails and wrote copy about silky, smooth hair? Or was it how I slept twisted and disturbed? Maybe it’s punishment for too much texting? Or my working, rational half is just tired? Tired of searching for rational answers about why we’re not together anymore. And so under shingles, I rest.
Finally, I write.
