Blood mixes with soap and twirls down the kitchen drain like a pink galaxy. The stitches; black, crude and alien against my white forearm. The skin; an irritated red where Skim shaved me before the incision. Little strands of hair sticks to the sink like scattered planets.
The anaesthetics keeps everything at a comfortable distance and I’m dull enough for contemplation. I have magnets under my skin. Metallic neighbors to the muscles in my arm. I feel their weight, slight but present, and the pull as if they’re itching to go.
William Burroughs suggested that the human soul is a electromagnetic field. Einstein asserted that energy cannot be created or destroyed. It can only change forms. So nothing ever goes away. We are everything and everything is all around us. Ancient beings in an eternal world, shoved into flesh and rocks and wood and forced to forget ourselves.
My magnets will be my compass. I’ll go find our congregations.
I’ll cook my temporal lobe in electromagnetic cauldrons and lysergide on the top of this planet and I’ll find a way to talk to the rest of us.
Already they’re nudging me in some new direction. Me and the magnets are anxious to leave.
We have so many places to feel.
There are so many places I haven’t yet felt.
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