Eels Arriving on the Sargasso Sea
Gauguin, Paul. Le Christ Vert. 1889 I looked down at my cold feet and they looked green, almost translucent, the blue of the veins noticeable, and they looked too far away like something through a telescope. I imagined them marble, where the form would be permanent and the color solid white, and hard, and heavy, firmly planted on the Earth. My hands were much warmer but still white with the same blue intersecting veins and I imagined them the same substance but more pliable and floating. Hands are avian, I think. I felt well, painless, except for the occasional surge of chemicals that kept me laying down while navigating a recent trauma. Trauma is perhaps the wrong word. Words are so damn limited. Limited to communicate the expression of profound experience but extremely good at unifying us all in a common order. In the literate world anyway, the world of marks upon marks. You, dear reader, know me through written words. If you happen to actually know me, you still can only know m
