My Body — My Car

Dear Leeli,

This body is a car with a strange windshield. And it has a mind of its own. I want to turn right and I look out and I see right and I use both hands on the wheel to turn right and damn if I don’t end up left.

Same with love here. I meet, I fall in love, I court, I melt, I marry and damn, if at the end of the day I don’t end up having fallen in hate.

Inside, by the dash board indicators and by the feel of the thing I know one thing, but as I set out to steer, damn if I don’t end up at the other.

It’s was a pink car, this car, when I first found it. Pink and screaming. All inside, no outside in this pink car, just me and screaming.

And fuel, it tells me what it wants, this car, so I fuel it, feels good, taste it calls it, and it feeds me all this taste and it tastes good, and good, and good, and damn if in the end it wasn’t the wrong fuel.

True, it’s an amazing vehicle: skin instead of metal, metabolism instead of fuel system, limbs instead of wheels, eyes instead of windshield, ears for side-windows, and we won’t talk about the exhaust in polite society.

And lasting, better than seventy years most ones. Wear down though, they do. The old ones wrinkled and stationary mostly. Swimming in their exhaust. Melting from within.

It can have guests this car. Little, little vehicles that eat up the big one, and so in the end the car is but a shell filled with those little ones that in the end, food-less now, set out to die.

Some call these guests cancer.

That’s one drawback. There are others.

One is that it won’t let you out. The doors are welded shut. Other cars, elsewhere, were much more convenient, user-friendly if you like. If there was something wrong with it, for example, you just took it to the shop and left it there. They fixed it, called you when it was done, and you went over and picked it up.

Here you have to stay inside while they bang, and drill, and weld, and hurt it. Yes, that’s another strange one. It can be quite painful. Guess that is in the way of saying “be careful” but I don’t know. Anyway, it’s a damn nuisance at times, and can be quite introverting.

And there’s this other thing about it. The way you get a new one. Not like pain, but almost. Then you have to find another car and, I don’t know, sort of roll around together for a while and the pain becomes so intense you confuse it with pleasure and nine months later there’s a little car (sometimes several) coming out of one of the exhausts. Sometimes mine, sometimes the other car’s, depends on what kind I’ve got at the time.

It’s fun though, with all these feelings and tastes, and hungers, and little sensations here and there that you never really get on your own.

But although I like it here, I worry about its not letting me out. Well, of course you do find your way out once the thing is all deteriorated, but not until then, and it can be hard.

And then you have to pick up a fresh replacement.

And it does something to wishing. You know how, normally, when you wish something the right way it happens. Right away, well, almost right away; depends on your laughter. Well, not here, you wish, casually, and nothing at all happens; so, you wish harder, and nothing at all happens—or if something does happen, it’s the exact reverse; and so, you wish as hard as you can, and still nothing happens (or the reverse).

I have found that you have to wish with your entire being for your wish to actually come true, the way you wish it, and even that is kind of sporadic, kind of hit-and-miss. This is not a good thing. Major drawback. But the thing is, you forget about it after a while. There is so much here to taste.

I hope that you are well and that things are good at home.

Write soon.


My Body - My Car.jpg