How often does a real connection come along? I do not believe in things like this – soul mates, irrepressible linkages, perhaps even love itself. Even now, I am half convinced that we have imagined our connection from the projections we place upon each other.
The orange I plucked felt leathery and warm in my hands. I measured its swollen heft and sunk my thumbs into the thick pith, stripping the slippery rind. The fruit itself was small, its flesh desiccant, its cells densely packed pustules that when bitten ruptured and spewed sour nectar in my mouth. I ate the entire orange.
There’s this perception that if you don’t hook up a lot, you’re either not a very sexual person, or you’re repressed--sitting there, innocent and nervous, both unaware and afraid of your body, its inner workings and the incomprehensible magic of your dormant sexuality. It’s a whole other fantastic world, if you’d only let someone take your hand and show you.
Death is gritty, primal. The means by which modern medicine can keep us alive in the very end, when all of our systems ingloriously fall out of step, are not romantic or beautiful or dignified — think respirators, tubes running every which way, morphine drips.