Ana Toader

I am perfecting myself. You tell me you have never seen me more beautiful. To you, it looks like like I am a blue cloud that just happened into this shape. That is only my base, around it, I am a singing mechanism. This familiar shape that contains me - I build it.

A game of tipping the scales, a game of geometries. True, I am more number than I am line, but in the end all these numbers, that are close to our regular people intuition, are segments of the real axis. A matter of perspective.

The sufficient amount of fruit that has to enter my body to make my cheeks settle into this shape. The clenched teeth while I use the same muscle again and again to elongate these limbs.  The supplements forced down my throat to make all  functions have an expected value. The comb walked regularly in my wet hair to make it straight, two wings of gold cutting through my child cheeks. When it’s sunny outside and I’m on a bus, looking out the window, the threads that I expect to luminesce in my hair are there. I live in my geometry.

I share fragments of myself with other women. Today I was reminded of it. There’s so much similarity lying around.

“Pedalling through
The dark currents
I find
An accurate copy
A blueprint
Of the pleasure
In me” – Bjork- Pagan Poetry lyrics
This is pleasure beyond consciousness. I will give you a taste, remote like a dragonfly’s wing brushing against your arm during one short spasm, then leaving you forever to die into summer.

When I was 17, I wrote something like this “I am stunned. Stunned and sad and happy; I feel a treasure of tears in my throat and these are the precious tears that come with new discoveries or changes. Is there quelque chose common to all intelligent women? Neurosis, insecurity, lability, melancholy alternation with naive happiness… I turn my eyes to the beginning of the century and I see Anais, Virginia Woolf, Katherine Mansfield. I cannot define completely what they have in common, but I am reading Katherine’s diary and I have the excruciating feeling that I’ve seen everything in it, I’ve seen it inside me and the narcotic tender happiness that I’m experimenting is due to meeting kindred spirits”.

I miss that.

“And the Earth spins round
While the people fall down
And the world stands still
Not a sound, not a sound
There is love, there is love
To be found
In the worst way, in the worst way
In the worst way ” – Lisa Germano – From a Shell (Underworld OST)

I watched Talia Paz dance to this. My palms were weaving blood, I was nothing. Everything was her, this lightning child, cracking my cathedral irrevocably. Carbonised core. Crying choire.

My body did not have enough pulse for how much blood wanted to rush to her, to rush to the stage. And still I wanted to give her more, more than I am.

I bear your mark on my mashed heart, the giant bruise left behind by cruel lover teeth. There is love to be found in the worst way and it fills my throat with oceans and God, I want to cry, but I don’t care, I don’t care. There is love to be found in the worst way.

http://www.taliapaz.com/

Time to lift the cadaver, prop it up.

He is waiting for me, his eyes larger with anticipation. I must be extraordinary, but forced seduction tires me. Great expectations, great claws around my throat.

No matter, I can match your eager eyes. I am older. I become desirable using the same tools that I have used before. Like a woman dressing for a lover. I think I read this phrase as a child, in a book by a second hand author who conjured unfinished characters. Nonetheless, he taught me colour.

Colour in little boxes. Baked gold, silvery violet, steel. Juxtapositions can create universes. All I need is colour and I can be mother to an endless string of girls. If only these fingers agreed to paint.

What jolt do I need in order to make new myths? I am tired, I am uninterested, I am uninspired. The comfort of reutilisation. We kiss with the same lips. Dress of the day, waiting for me on a chair like a silent child, so I can avoid making new decisions. I slip in my old constructions with relief, this has worked before.

“What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” – Ecclesiastes 1:9-14

My stem knows this. Yet my layers can’t help feeling some boundary between me, now and the rest, then.