Wednesday, May 30, 2007

item #7833

Middle-aged pre-op f-to-m ts, NE, UK.

Why, in the hours of darkness, does my head feel like it will explode? My eyes bulge; my mouth gapes; I stutter, hesitate, and pause. I cough and cry-out. I am looking to the Earth - to all of you; and I am draped upon your signs and signifiers; so much so that I rattle as I walk. Within my hands are burdens, the shackles of life. I am a stranger to words. I want to be exchanged, accepted, used as social currency. I feel second-hand, in pieces. Sometimes I stop. Sometimes I never stop.

Can you redevelop and redefine your approach? Can you cook the books? I am seeking the release of borrowed kinetic energy. I have, I think, latent abilities. But my life has no energy. I am, as it were, contained within the vision of others. Can you, perhaps, enhance and develop the natural life I hold? I exist as utensil. Can you confect procedures to warm this blank machine? I am indelicate, true. Light arcs from my ten bony fingers, creating background, thought-out-loud, a sick pink dawning. Mould me as your muse. My minds-eye is tight-shut, yes. But you have implements - switch them on. This utensil needs you.


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