Writing Body

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My Lungs by Valencia Davis May 14, 2010

Filed under: Body Part Essays — remy brommer @ 1:08 pm

25 weeks into my existence, my lungs have been a part of me, a part of my life support. 25 weeks into my existence, I have been negligent to acknowledge what keeps my heart, my mind, my being cycling. Through my unconsciousness, through my dreams, through strains of my waking life you never stop swelling contracting, and swelling to sustain my human life. With meditation I bring life through awareness of you in silence and persistence. These are my stillest moments, and I finally know that you are there with all that is within me. I am conscious of your efforts, conscious of how you never sleep, like I do. My awareness of you keeps me awake, keeps centered, keeps me here. I can think of you pleasantly as pink and fleshy, round in some places, stronger than most muscles that I have. If I could touch you, how would you feel against my fingers? Slick and wet, intimate, always encaged by bones, by my skin,  hovering around my solar plexus, gentle but profound, sleepless and determined to keep me, to support me, to make me. Would you tremble under the soft contact of another extension of me? Or simply grow ill because of all the dirt and ailments the skin on my hands solemnly promise you.  Besides this state of consciousness of your presence, there are times, far too many that you are there without much acknowledgement at all. Without much acknowledgement that you are controlling, the very source of my state of mind.

Some of my fondest memories of you involve my smothering you in smoke, choking away my consciousness. I do this so that  I may smile in a way that is effortless, so that the unbearable weight of Tuesdays and my makeup brush on a foreign face won’t  kill my insides as much as they do on Mondays. So that it is easier to bat my eyes, and feel the light of the sun on my skin or the whisking breeze against the sounds of traffic hurdling through my window.  So that it is easier to feel my favorite song when the sun is setting, or to feel a lover’s hands, to feel the acute temperature of  his skin and its texture, the exact shape, width, and depth in me of a lover’s perfect indication of gender, to feel the silken pool of tresses against my thighs, accompanied by the sincerest of fingers and the flexing wetness of a tongue, a tiny feminine voice that speaks soft and breaths warmth from her lungs, quicken the fluctuating pulses of mine, of  you.

When my heart was broken, I’m more than sure that you were the blackest you’d ever been. About a quarter-pack of cigarettes a day I’d smoke, to ease away the knots in my stomach, to make me feel less like I was dying, when in reality, there was only more death that I was bringing into me. From pure luck, my self-inflicted death obsession has faded, and I keep you as healthy as possible, returning the favor in the best ways I know.

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Body Extremis by Valencia Davis

Filed under: The Body in Extremis — remy brommer @ 1:03 pm

The pain is like hot knives inside me and I submit to it in obedience. As it is nothing I can physically touch, it is a massaging horror like rhythmic pulses of death rolling its way sharply throughout every muscle in my body. I dare not move, as I might increase the horrid sensation while flexing a muscle somewhere deep inside me I didn’t know existed. I keep my palms up at mercy to my creator, begging it to take the pain away. A candle is lit, and a nugget of bloodstone sits at my hip, and I’ve a belly full  legal drugs to numb every unpleasant physical sensation this body might host. This body, there’s blood flowing through this body, from this body. I can create life and harness it inside of me, I am the chosen gender to envelop the growing of a soul, as it extracts from my own, I must feel the weight, the heaviness of this blessing through pain, pushing my face towards the depths, the very brinks of what physical death must feel like and back, to the solemn persistence of life. A cycle of scattered thoughts and sensations course through me, and I am made more aware, I am thankful,  I think I might die and nausea sweeps over me. I am naked and shivering from the cold bite in the air, but I don’t dare allow the weight of the comforter on my skin.  No more weight on me, no more weight. My hand slides down to the top of my abdomen, and in a calming motion, strokes nurturingly as my lips whisper soft comforting murmurs. I am the only comfort I know, the only presence within reach to calm my mind from insanity, to calm me back into knowing, to lessen the weight that is pressing hot inside of me. I was once told that giving birth to a child isn’t much more painful than this, and I need no first hand proof to prompt belief.  A transluscent muffling, a dulling of the pain slides over its head, the pain beginning to be sucked away by the drugs I’ve ingested. I fall into silence for a solid moment before the torturous fingers spread wide inside me once more. I thank God, whatever it is, for the promise of change. The increments of the calm grow more extensive, the silence grows longer, and I move less, allowing it to sink in. An hour later I am deliciously numb throughout, the awareness of my senses is now more pleasant. I have survived another indication of my womanhood.

 

The Writing Body Blog Intro by Valencia Davis

Filed under: Introduction — remy brommer @ 1:00 pm

The duration of the Spring 2010 Semester in The Writing Body class has proven to be a unique, multi-sensory stimulation and growth experience for every student collectively involved. The course has creatively incorporated and explored the use of traditional yoga, monitored awareness of the human body (our own and others alike) human emotions, manifestation and expression of those emotions, and the sensing of the human spirit and/or  our metaphysical bodies.  As every course of value should, these in-class experiences have prompted educated responses and expressions, displaying growth and awareness in each and every student.

Here there are several examples of those expressions, in the form of journal entries, expounding on physical and emotional reactions to in-class exercises, descriptions of the independent lives of our body parts, essays on the body’s responses and actions in extreme circumstance, favorite quotes, and much more. Here we hope to display significant growth, enlightenment and unfiltered expression from each vessel that has fortunately taken part in The Writing Body.


 

Dan Nawrocki’s Annotation on “The Horla” May 10, 2010

Filed under: Annotations and Quotes — remy brommer @ 11:41 pm

Dan Nawrocki

The Horla

In recent years, I have become increasingly fascinated by mental illness. And for as long as I remember, I have been fascinated with creatures of myth/lore/fantasy/etc. It was with the former fascination that I decided to do this book report of sorts on “The Horla” by Guy de Maupassant. And it was the latter that made me enjoy it to the extent that I did.

The story takes the form of the diary of an unnamed man. The first entry involves this man pretty much just relaxing and having a grand old time just lazing about on his lawn, watching boats go by. The following entries then begin to detail his encounters with the strange creature called the Horla. It starts with simply physical symptoms such as a fever, which the man’s doctor can find no medical reason for. And soon it manifests itself in new ways. The man states that he has a great deal of trouble sleeping, being constantly plagued by dreams of someone or something kneeling on his chest and strangling him. Even when awake, he feels as if he is constantly being watched or followed. As the story progresses, the man becomes increasingly obsessed or possessed (it’s hard to tell which) by this creature, the Horla. He begins to question his own sanity and by the end, he states that he is ready to kill himself.

Based on the little description I was given in the list of readings that we were given, I had actually expected a true autobiography. And at first, I thought it was with the format of the story. But after a little research, I found out that it was merely a short story, though perhaps it was somewhat autobiographical in nature, as Maupassant did attempt suicide five years after writing the story.

Of the main character, one thing can be said. He was mad. Whether the Horla was literally possessing him or the Horla was just a figment of his already present insanity is never clearly explained (which I love, by the way). But the story does depict the man’s slow descent into insanity in great detail.

All of the physical sensations the man feels are described in great detail, from the feeling of the Horla on his chest to simply spinning around until he falls over. But more importantly, because the story is in the form of a diary, you get every single thought that goes through this man’s head, and by reading it, I almost got the feeling of being this man.

 

Filed under: Inspiring Words, Definitions, and Etymologies — remy brommer @ 9:43 pm

1) massage – the act or art of treating the body by rubbing, kneading, patting, or the like, to stimulate circulation, increase suppleness, relieve tension, etc.- from French massage “friction of kneading” or Arabic massa “mass, dough”

2) experience- direct observation of or participation in events as a basis of knowledge- Latin experiential “act of trying”

3) imagination- the act of power of forming a mental image of something not present to the senses or never before wholly perceived in reality- Latin imaginatio

4) panic- a sudden overwhelming fear, with or without cause, that produces hysterical or irrational behavior, and that often spreads quickly through a group of persons or animals- from Greek panikon “pertaining to (the god) Pan”

 

Filed under: Annotations and Quotes — remy brommer @ 9:36 pm

“The awakened and Knowing say: Body I am entirely, and nothing else; and soul is only a word for something about the body.” Nietzsche

 

Filed under: Annotations and Quotes — remy brommer @ 9:35 pm

“When grapes turn
To Wine, they long for our ability to change.

When stars wheel
Around the North Pole;
They are longing for out growing consciousness.

Wine got drunk with us,
Not the other way;
The body developed out of us, not we from it.

We are bees,
And our body is a honeycomb,
We made the body,
cell by cell,
we made it.

Rumi