Over the past year, since my mom got diagnosed with serious cancer, I’ve had yearnings wash over me for my body to be something else. Sitting at the terminal in the Toronto airport, on the way to Vancouver, I’d be struck by the desire for my body to be spun from either end, like silk, until I became a wispy strand of nothingness. Standing on the streetcar, I’d feel the visuals of a rapid succession of tsunami-like sound waves aimed at my chest, pulverizing me. Sitting at my desk, I’d sense a hand pulling my throat up and out of me. Standing in the shower, I’d feel a flutter of being compressed into a non-space, like a beer can, under a busy man’s sandal, at an outdoor music festival.
Pulver, Isabella, Persia
Pulver, Isabella, Persia
Pulver, Isabella, Persia
Over the past year, since my mom got diagnosed with serious cancer, I’ve had yearnings wash over me for my body to be something else. Sitting at the terminal in the Toronto airport, on the way to Vancouver, I’d be struck by the desire for my body to be spun from either end, like silk, until I became a wispy strand of nothingness. Standing on the streetcar, I’d feel the visuals of a rapid succession of tsunami-like sound waves aimed at my chest, pulverizing me. Sitting at my desk, I’d sense a hand pulling my throat up and out of me. Standing in the shower, I’d feel a flutter of being compressed into a non-space, like a beer can, under a busy man’s sandal, at an outdoor music festival.