overrun with my physical self

I said,

Everything about yesterday was exhausting. I left Pilou before the meal of snails because it became too much work to chat with him in French. I got into the house okay and ate the rest of my cheese and seven apricots and three carrots and half a loaf of bread soaked in coconut oil because it was what I had.

Today I’m a little overrun with my physical self — yesterday I got barnacles embedded in my foot and I have a good surgical needle, carried with me, but man this is a job, and on account of the IUD I had placed in New York I find I bleed from my reproductive organs in a newly voluminous way — like, a leaving bloody handprints on Sylkaʼs bathroom walls way. What a burden is a body. 

I am redrawing ma pancarte now, and after this I will go buy barres énergetiques, and then I will go to the beach. 

A seagull near me is having a hard time eating a whole ice cream cone. 

shredded the sole

Yesterday I was fucking around on the rocks during basse-marée at Treuil and shredded my right foot with barnacles, some bits of which are now embedded in, by current count, four places along the sole.

I tried before bed to get them out myself using the one precious surgical needle I have smuggled along, with no luck. I’m not quite flexible enough and couldn’t quite see by the dusky dangling bulbs with which Sylvie Carole lights her home.

How romantic, this injury. And how when I can’t really pay for anything at all can I pay a doctor to do to me what I, uncredentialed, could easily do to someone else? I will soak it, and think, and wait, and watch for infection.

good morning to my first day at this casa rural

Good morning to my first full day at this casa rural that has no address. Dreams about drinking rosé in weirdly unbreakable glasses. Woke to pee and then couldn’t sleep again for a while for all my anxieties about new heights of isolation. Finally put my last bandaid on the cut on my finger from trying to open my beer in unorthodox and ill-conceived ways yesterday on the bus from San Sebastián, which during my sleep had grown dry and painful, and that comfort let me drift back off, into dreams about meeting men for photoshoots and elaborate breakfasts, a dual impossibility for the foreseeable waking future.

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