Life in Bodies

I forgot how much horror I experienced when I was little over the whole big mess of birthing and killing and dying and eating, being parasitized and parasitizing, the awful closeness of being glued into meat and stuck in a world where meat reigns.

I forgot until yesterday! When I found a segment of tape worm on my cat and it all came rushing back. Yech. Yechyechyech. Why is it so maddening? Why does it make me shudder? I thought at first, you know, it’s just gross. But why? Is it the invasion of something else living inside you? Is it the lack of control over a space you have managed to con yourself into believing you own? I don’t think so.

I think it’s the intimacy. We pretend, especially in America, that we can sanitize our houses with Lysol, tidy up our minds with therapy, defeat fear through breathing exercises and books on how to dominate in business. We take every Eastern mystic practice and try use them against their very natures, not to bring us to acceptance of cycles, but to lock us away from the truth of our existence. We put up straw stakes in wet sand to keep us safe from the consuming touch of love, nature, death. And we haaaaaate it when something (and there is always something. Every. Single. Day.) knocks down our lovely straw houses and we are confronted once again with the fact that we live in violable, dependent meat.

I may be projecting. I may be the only person who feels this way. But I don’t think so.

Anyway. The cat has a tapeworm. I freaked out. I stood on my tiptoes and hummed and shivered and gagged with the ickiness of it. And today I feel better! More alive. More able. Ready to work, for the triumph of the cat and the defeat of the tapeworm. Ready to work for the triumph of myself and my sweet, gross meat, and the defeat of isolation and immobility.

Which is pretty annoying. I see you, God. I see you. And you’re annoying.

Life in Bodies

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