Spinal column
a stairwell of books,
rungs of untouched vertebrae
avoided by the bibliophile herself
[myself].
Brain is wired differently
than the rest of them.
At first,
I thought it was a matter of being
****-retentive.
A veteran perfectionist
who strives to imagine every detail
as intricately and accurately
as the author must have intended.
Character's faces morph into
sloppy, patchwork collages,
features copied and pasted from
beautiful strangers and
celebrities who played
in the movie adaptations.
Their appearances are both
cliche
and
incomprehensible.
I am told a character is pale,
but can only manage to visualize a complexion
the colour of notebook paper,
penetrating blue eyes mere apparitions
against a wintry terrain--
her ears
nose
lips
misplaced beneath the tundra.
I lay the book atop my collarbone,
its cover pitched into a make-shift tent.
(Cautiously).
Almost as if I am
afraid to disturb
the seriffed constellations
that flicker above my heart.
I stare up at the ceiling
(vacant, as am I),
my eyebrows scrunched
into nooses of concentration,
several minutes passing before
her cheeks gradually begin to thaw,
warming over in an ombre
of pinks and olives.
And I rejoice!
Strike down the tent,
pupils hungry for prose.
But there is always
another character.
In Valley of the Dolls,
a handsome man,
whose hairline I cannot
properly envision
(this makes him less handsome).
This time,
when I lay my book down,
I do not proceed with caution,
the corners of its pages
dog-earing against my body.
Google:
men's hairstyles, 1940's
(I need to commit to memory
three different styles
so the three different males
I am working with
are not trite clones of each other).
I can only manage three pages
at a time
before having to take a break.
Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text
Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text
Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text
Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text
Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text
Three pages for me
is an exponential task,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting
Jaqueline Susanne's vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text
Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text
Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text
Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text
on the first
(second...
third...
I don't know...)
try.
Turns out
this is more than just
being ****-retentive.
This is Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.
I yearn for times of old
junior high
when I could finish a novel
in a day--
ramona and beezus
butterfly lion
the silver donkey.
But even then,
the obsessions were there,
one substituted for another:
the ceaseless gushing
of the soap pump
and dizzying rotation
of the faucet taps.
Could barely hold literature
between my palms
without aggravating
the rosettes of eczema
that had sprout
along my hands,
scoured clean and raw.
Eventually,
I outgrew these harrowing baptisms.
Am still waiting to outgrow
the laborious nature of my readings.
My only antidote poetry,
for it heals me in
every way
fiction could not
[cannot].
The poems do not trouble me,
do not burden me
with overwhelming arrangements
of ink and letters.
Instead,
I confront the English language
line by line,
sedated by the simple
fragmentation
of each stanza.
Because even when fragmented,
these stanzas offer up to me
the written word
like it is ambrosia
when I am starving
for intellect
but cannot feast.
I am spoon-fed words
until I am full--
am reminded that
I am not the stupid girl
I believe I am,
courtesy of my
obsessive, compulsive short circuits.
I do not relate to the cohesion of prose,
cannot deny the brilliant likeness
that exists between the reader
and her enjambment--
both fractured mosaics of metaphor.
I am
as broken
as these verses.
But
it is only as
I shatter
that I am freed.
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