Fashioning the Body: Versions of the Citizen, the Self, and the Subject

categorization is inevitable. the line between necessity and obsession is a fine one.

her arms like to feel productive.  the boxes are a relief, an outlet to perform well without effort.

 blank.                                 slate.                                  fill.

the tendons hear their own purpose in the lines designated by others. its easy to demarcate. and terrifying to let the etchings become scribbles. if you were to look at your world and the walls had become blips of seafoam and dotted gesture who would hold your hand then?

i cannot formulate whether the confined spaces bother me anymore or not. hyper-empty, protocalled dreams, all of the ticks and tocks chipped off the block and when the ice is thicker than your identity it is unknowable if it will fall away.

there is a face. his eyes are closed. his lips are thin, the ears a bit a-symmetrical.

rivets of hair, conundrum of a father, half tones bark, spin. it goes.

swagger between total order and total chaos. we're left looking at the spare skin pieces as testimony to our compulsions. the thin pieces of paper. the thin pieces of paper. if you could hold your life in your hands would you ever again condemn yourself to the back arches that led to a place which could never be seen.

even experimentation is contrived. the excercises fall in with the rest. motions gone through to break whatever will you thought you had left.

that one time.                that same time again.

check the vitals. underscore the initials. sign your duty. gaze at all the remnants that signified your ordering.