~
Spinal column a stairwell of books, rungs of untouched vertebrae avoided by the bibliophile herself [myself]. Brain is wired differently than the rest of them. At first, I thought it was a matter of being anal-retentive. A veteran perfectionist who strives to imagine every detail as intricately and accurately as the author must have intended. Character's faces morph into sloppy, patchwork collages, features copied and pasted from beautiful strangers and celebrities who played in the movie adaptations. Their appearances are both cliche and incomprehensible. I am told a character is pale, but can only manage to visualize a complexion the colour of notebook paper, penetrating blue eyes mere apparitions against a wintry terrain-- her ears nose lips misplaced beneath the tundra. I lay the book atop my collarbone, its cover pitched into a make-shift tent. (Cautiously). Almost as if I am afraid to disturb the seriffed constellations that flicker above my heart. I stare up at the ceiling (vacant, as am I), my eyebrows scrunched into nooses of concentration, several minutes passing before her cheeks gradually begin to thaw, warming over in an ombre of pinks and olives. And I rejoice! Strike down the tent, pupils hungry for prose. But there is always another character. In Valley of the Dolls, a handsome man, whose hairline I cannot properly envision (this makes him less handsome). This time when I lay my book down, I do not proceed with caution, the corners of its pages dog-earing against my body. Google: men's hairstyles, 1940's (I need to commit to memory three different styles so the three different males I am working with are not trite clones of each other). I can only manage three pages at a time before having to take a break. Three pages for me is strenuous, as I pause to formulate images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's creative vision; as I look up every word I don't know the meaning of in the dictionary; as I repeatedly deliberate the same passage because of my incapability to thoroughly process the text Three pages for me is strenuous, as I pause to formulate images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's creative vision; as I look up every word I don't know the meaning of in the dictionary; as I repeatedly deliberate the same passage because of my incapability to thoroughly process the text Three pages for me is strenuous, as I pause to formulate images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's creative vision; as I look up every word I don't know the meaning of in the dictionary; as I repeatedly deliberate the same passage because of my incapability to thoroughly process the text Three pages for me is strenuous, as I pause to formulate images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's creative vision; as I look up every word I don't know the meaning of in the dictionary; as I repeatedly deliberate the same passage because of my incapability to thoroughly process the text Three pages for me is strenuous, as I pause to formulate images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's creative vision; as I look up every word I don't know the meaning of in the dictionary; as I repeatedly deliberate the same passage because of my incapability to thoroughly process the text Three pages for me is an exponential task, as I pause to formulate images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's vision; as I look up every word I don't know the meaning of in the dictionary; as I repeatedly deliberate the same passage because of my incapability to thoroughly process the text Three pages for me is strenuous, as I pause to formulate images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's creative vision; as I look up every word I don't know the meaning of in the dictionary; as I repeatedly deliberate the same passage because of my incapability to thoroughly process the text Three pages for me is strenuous, as I pause to formulate images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's creative vision; as I look up every word I don't know the meaning of in the dictionary; as I repeatedly deliberate the same passage because of my incapability to thoroughly process the text Three pages for me is strenuous, as I pause to formulate images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's creative vision; as I look up every word I don't know the meaning of in the dictionary; as I repeatedly deliberate the same passage because of my incapability to thoroughly process the text on the first (second... third... I don't know...) try. Turns out this is more than just being anal-retentive. This is Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I yearn for times of old junior high when I could finish a novel in a day-- ramona and beezus
the butterfly lion
catching fire
But even then,
the obsessions were there,
one substituted for another:
the ceaseless gushing
of the soap pump
and dizzying rotation
of the faucet taps.
Could barely hold literature
between my palms
without aggravating
the rosettes of eczema
that had sprout
along my hands,
scoured clean and raw.
Eventually,
I outgrew these harrowing baptisms.
Am still waiting to outgrow
the laborious nature of my readings.
My only antidote poetry,
for it heals me in
every way
fiction could not
[cannot].
The poems do not trouble me,
do not burden me
with overwhelming arrangements
of ink and letters.
Instead,
I confront the English language
line by line,
sedated by the simple
fragmentation
of each stanza.
Because even when fragmented,
these stanzas offer up to me
the written word
like it is ambrosia
when I am starving
for intellect
but cannot feast.
I am spoon-fed words
until I am full--
am reminded that
I am not the stupid girl
I believe I am,
courtesy of my
obsessive, compulsive short circuits.
I do not relate to the cohesion of prose,
cannot deny the brilliant likeness
that exists between the reader
and her enjambment--
both fractured mosaics of metaphor.
I am
as broken
as these verses.
But
it is only as
I shatter
that I am freed.
Image Source:
Candle flickering above book gif (n.d.). [image] Available at: https://love-infested.tumblr.com/post/187187107116/yandere-monsters-drabbles-warning-unhealthy [Accessed 14 Apr. 2020]
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