A Body of Work
In response to the ideas and questions posed here, by the lovely and talented Chevanne, this …
A body of work. My body does the work, of my mind. It makes a body of work. A body of work like a body of water—an ocean, vast and undulating, still and tranquil, raging and raining. A body of work. Hard, lean muscles still supple and lithe. I’m getting older. You’re getting older, too. We’re aging, all of us. In our bodies, through our bodies. Our bodies of work. They tell our story, which is their story laid plain on the ground, on the field of vision. My body of work, mon corpus d'oeuvre, a ragtag bunch of errors arranged together in clever and not-so-clever ways. A puzzle of the psyche, maybe, but a map to the minds—a map in the sense of places having been to, having seen, in the mind’s eye, with the eyes in my head, or both. And what comes for the body? Time. We call it time, entropy, erosion. Erosion to the body leaves little left but bones; and, over time, there is oil, gravel. Bodies (of work) that ‘stand the test of time’ we call ‘classics’ or maybe even ‘great works.’ Why do they stand? How do they stand? Through the reanimation of the body by others, still here, still there, still remaining. So we see another body at work, another body of work, who maintains the corpses of those gone, they who are ‘gone but not forgotten.’
AIS 0020
I’m turning 46. Like, in less than a week, it will be done. That puts me on the downhill side of 90, which I’m fine with. I hope to live to see 90 … today, anyway. Ask me again sometime!
Birthdays are always an introspective time for me. One of my faves is when I was turning eighteen, and my parents gave me some new boots and then let me be alone for the day, like I asked. And my girlfriend came by and was all, “I know you want to be alone on your birthday, so I’m not gonna stay. I just want to give you this, then I’ll go.” She gave me a single red rose, then indeed left without a complaint. What does this say about me?
For ages, I had it in my writing will that all my works should go to my best friend in the event of my untimely demise. We both have families now, and so I’ve changed it to read that all my writing goes to my kids, with a provision that they should seek his guidance around writing from when he knew me most intimately or from when they didn’t know me at all because they were not yet born. I don’t know if any of them are okay with this. Should probably ask.
We presume that our work matters. I guess it matters to someone. Matters to me.
How to be a useful body, make useful things. That’s the trick of it.
