For this Wordless Wednesday some words creep in too.
So it began well. I was in brain fog, but in no pain apart from my ever tricky-woo shoulder, so I walked. After 2 hours I felt exhilarated and light. I could go any direction with ease. My evening was mine for the taking, and taken. I missed my stop on that logic train.
I went past my station. In this time without clocks I don’t know what time I left. Stores that closed at 6 were open when I began. The 4:30 closures were closed. It was in all perhaps 4 hours or 5. I walked because I was free, until my mind and body weren’t, which was probably about 9 or 10km in and up to only a few blocks from home.
I was stranded by exhaustion. (Which is the prime fear of going cycling and walking. And a false fear, a bullying self because there has never been a home I’ve been stranded from, one that I’ve never been trapped out of. It is only losing centrality of my own will, and being delayed.) But when harassed by pain, clarity slips. Everything hurt, not just the hips and knees but a chorus of all the joints and a hubbub in between. Normally, just as you can eat more when there is more variety in the food, when there are many kinds of pains and levels, it is easier to bear, but only to a point. Gimping to a bench, brain shut down so not information goes in. Language is buzzy. Body feels like a stiff bridge popping its rebar. I got home, got sleep, am further back than before I started yesterday. But alright.
I used to think others just hid this well. But the crashes are so fast. They are like my trick knee. I’m walking normally, perhaps tired, perhaps not, and then on stride one leg caves as the knee doesn’t bear weight that time, but will the next. I fear eventually I’ll become superstitious of stairs because a stumble on flat ground is one thing.
When I was small I described to my mom my dream of falling down the stairs. Apparently I did as a toddler, unattended for a split second. They were sure I was dead but a toddler has a rubberyness and I was just stunned after a tumble into a dark cellar.
It is made from a fisher skull and text. It was part of her book making workshop. When set out its jaw dropped open and its words blew in the wind.
Books when they are bridging towards sculptural, pop-up, origami folds, pockets and so on, are hard to represent visually. They need to be manipulated in the hands for the reader to be more of a participant than tapping a screen or autopiloting turning a page. Accordions reveal line by line but is more dialogue with more touch than just moving the eye.
A book in last year’s Puddles of sky tangiblog unfolded so that it needs to be experienced with unfolding extra long pages. Why should each canvas page within a book be uniform or relate in the same direction? Or the same dimension. Books in a matchbox.
Quotes were pulled out on strips extending past the covers, and photos and maps added in. Periodically chapters were summarized with pages folded into origami of a bird, another of an arrow, another of a heart.
Quote: “Victims suggest innocence. And innocence, by the inexorable logic that governs all relational terms, suggests guilt.” ~ Susan Sontag