Lately, starting around late September i have began to see and listen to the inside of my body. Imagine the kidneys pumping piss, my heart beating, pushing the blood and my brain resembling cottage cheese in a bloody gravy. Like brain masala served in Mumbai but mine alive. My lungs inhaling smoke, black and sticky like peas. Eye balls like elementary science dissection’s. Food moving through my system highlighted by Barry’s beetroot. And then there is breath. In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out.In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out.In and out and around and out.In and out and around and out.Thoughts of organs and their vital role in this.
“How are you today kidneys?”, ” Sorry, not time to talk, were busy!” They are the sweatshop of me, and my poor lungs. Greatful to be alive knowing everything is pulling together and working correctly. Even with the abuse. A good team, Pinky the fleshy machine.
The light outside shielded by fabric, drapes, muted. Soft and gentle inhales. The piano and songs about snow.
A small pink lantern looking better on that stall in Bombay.
Coral harmony creeping effortlessly from technology while they work away, painting, filing, i stay horizontal.
All days are different but flat connects one to the next. Siesta?
Nothing apart from a few clothes, a pottery dalmatian, breath and memories. New ones in the making.
A quiet Friday listening to songs about snow.