I am my body I am my body. Luke taught me one afternoon rainy many (five?) years ago. We sat on the veranda of a glass bar in the center, and sparkling and we were naive as I certainly no longer. He probably still do. He taught me to accept it and appreciate conceptual art of the body and also the other thing. It took him a while. I used to consider myself a sort of balloon floating in the void, full of thoughts and the voice that speaks to me inside. The body was another matter: it was the housing mobile walking the balloon, which alone remained high in the air. It took him an afternoon of coffee and talk but eventually Luke convinced me: I am my body. From After that I began staring at me, sitting in the bathtub to avoid splashing water around. I looked at the legs drawn up and arms are cold, white meat that was me, who am I, and those that existed in the world just a ten minute shower arranged and folded in on itself. I am my body, I told myself, and my body likes to throw up, I say this now. Although I always knew, even before Luke and rain on the windows of the bar. The party nights could be said to be complete, concluded, meaningful, only when I found myself staring at my own rocking nausea gastric juices. But earlier this rarely happens once a year, maybe less. When I was going a happy month. I always liked to pull out of me pieces of me, makes me feel cleaner, more empty. I like to cut my nails, looking at the hairdresser or the strands of hair falling on the polished tiles. Spare me that they would separate me from my physical being and my being a brain, total, which I also have my nails and my hair and my vomiting, pieces suddenly fall off, I'm not myself, are no longer me, who have become alien life forms stranger. Where does your nails cut? What happens to those pieces of me? When I am full of bitterness or helplessness vomiting, to dinner when my parents do not look or stare across the dark circles and my mother became more purple usual. I get down in the small bathroom, two floors below our kitchen and in our family paper, and to not feel rejected, his hands clutching the toilet bowl and the shreds of a silly dinner in silence. I know I'm bulimic and I know it hurts your teeth, because I remember an episode of Beverly Hills where the dentist is aware of the disease of women because the acid has damaged the enamel. My body regurgitating the bad things about me and I feel better, more healthy and holy even if they have never been Catholic, or rather I was like so many, baptism and catechism, white Communion dress. However I somehow inherited all the guilt and the Christian Catholic Apostolic. E'lo dirt under the skin I nailed the hot shower. I flatter myself that something if they slip away along with the burning on his back. I am my body and my body wants to go, cut into pieces and left in the world, rejected, vomited. My body wants a metamorphosis in reverse, step back of consciousness, to empty oneself and still images like a balloon to float.
