01 Feb Body Book
Chewing on glass teaches you a lot about the world. Well, about your own little world, at least. It teaches you dignity and indignity; it teaches you tolerance and intolerance; it teaches you the rigors of duality and why you should fully appreciate yourself at the beginning and end of each day.
Picking 80s glamor-model-thin slivers of crystal from your teeth like the deceived men of back alley streets just wanting a little shuffling rumpty under the salacious cover of night, you start to wonder if this isn’t all more than a midnight snack in the great meal of eternity. I can tell you that it is so, so much more. You will start to see yourself in those slivers like tiny fragmented mirrors, seeing yourself reflected back as the figure you truly wish to be. Taller, thinner, stronger, thicker; more handsome, sexier, smarter; more devious and cunning; more like me; most importantly – in the end which is truly never an end – more, well, You.
But Gumming Glass is only a small part of Recovery; a small part of what makes me who I am today as opposed to who I used to be three years ago; it’s only one chapter (Chapter 8) of The Body Book.
So, let me tell you about some of the others.
There’s Chapter 5: Muscle Mend; you don’t know home cooking until you’ve properly singed off the first few layers of your skin multiple times and left scabs that beg to ooze for weeks to come. Once you get past the skin, though, there’s a world of muscle twisting bone-white and meaty corpus-red like python cords around your slinky little bones.
Go ahead and turn on your stovetop; let it heat up; wait a few minutes. Lean your world-weary weight via your crotch into the thick edge of the doorhandle and let the bath of warmth come up and tickle your face; it’s like a friendly little neighbor asking to borrow a cup of sugar in the good old days before murder and rape were constants and the happy little families sat in happy little homes watching their TVs all singing in hollow static voices of the foreign world’s atrocities and why we should light them up with big rockets and send them all to dust.
Inhale, deeply; there’s that sugar-sweet smell, the promise of burning hair welled up deep like an infant’s fragile fist, pounding whisper-gentle against the inside of your nose. Let those tiny fingers rain hard; soon, that won’t matter.
The coils are red-hot now. You can hear the deep shifting like tectonic plates in the nichrome graveyard before you; you, the Recovering, the Artist, the Body’s Author, the Chief of Your Own. You are the owner of the world’s most important Body Book. You are a sumptuous page turner, the kind where a reader tries to lick their thumb before turning the page and finds themselves overflowing with saliva because your stories are just – that – good.
Chapter 12: I’ve Got My Eye On You (that one’s a little joke I threw in to give one a smidge of a huff-huff-haw). Now, initiation of the optic nerves into the sequence of your Recovery can present some challenges, unless you’re fully ready to give up your gift of Shallow Sight and see the world for what it truly is; many are not – yet – there, so don’t fret if you’d like to hold onto the shapes and colors that you’ve held dear from the time you were a child. We’ll get to Nicking Nostalgia in Chapter 29.
If you are not – yet – there for the supposed “loss” of Shallow Sight, then I present you with the following option:
Purchase one hypodermic (unopened, medical grade) needle – personally, I prefer Standard U-100 insulin syringes due to the shortened needle/thinner gauges and low amount of dead space. Once purchased, I recommend properly disinfecting at home – you never quite know what could happen in transit. Prepare your Altar with the proper Injection Grades (see: Chapter 11), and ready the Singing Solution.
The Singing Solution will assist you in the lessening of Shallow Sight, and the gradual welcome of the True Sight. Once filled, gently insert your needle of choice into the caruncula lacrimalis (small, meaty bit in the corner of your eye) and allow the Singing Solution passage into your vessel.
Be warned; as the name suggests, you will sing. You will sing so very loud and strong that neighboring angels of acrimony may come aknockin’ to wonder and press and ask questions that no Body Book should need to answer. Thus, I recommend removing the worry via Disingtegration. In fact, I recommend this step in the process before you proceed to any of the other Chapters. You can read more about Disingtegration in Chapter 2.
Let’s flip the page back to Chapter 5. By now, the stovetop should be screaming with its gentle neon lights, glowing with otherworldly promise. You should feel a deep sense of comfort; you know mother’s arms wait to cradle you; you know that she will stroke your cheek and lullaby sweet baby notions to your inner child; you know that her hand reaches out for you, carving a path of love and retribution through the heavy cookie-baked air of your home, so do not leave her waiting; reach out and clasp your fleshy fingers in her metal fingers and become one with your hopes and dreams.
Press your hand into the stovetop. Thread your greedy digits between the coils and hear as they welcome you with shouts of glee. You will, be warned, lose some of your False Shell, the skin that’s kept you so safe from reality for so many years, but you will come to find that it only ever presented you with undue and unwanted change.
If you are feeling extra adventurous, press on! There’s no need to wait for your first scabbing, your first peeling, the remnants of blood and brittle skin to flake off and present you with a shiny new child to ruin with excellence; if you are feeling up to it, begin your first real Muscle Mend. You will feel the years of wasted time and your thorough exercises in the stasis of futile presumptive inertia whip from your fresh bubbling frame like the winds of your own little apocalypse.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, though; after all, with your handholding and singing and sweet, sweet lullabies, you are still but a child. You have so much to learn. This is why I’ve written you this ultimate guide, your destruction manual, your step-by-step right out the window into the waiting arms of the streetlamps and bushes below; your Body Book.
This is your second puberty. This is your bodily ascension. This is the gravemarker you hold in your hands as you stand tall and proud on the breath of each new day, the tome which you kiss with your crusty lips trodden over with the lies you’ve let yourself believe, the new biblical commandments which you take and spin around and slam into the earth from which you borrowed your sickly vessel in the first place and proclaim yourself as the world’s newest virginal god.
This is the first chapter of the rest of your life, and this is your introduction to the Body Book; it’s said that true beauty is found on the inside, so let’s take a peek and see what you really look like.