on cartography


[From a larger essay project]


But to write about myself, I would have to be able to see around myself.  I would have to see my own gesture, hear my own tongue.  Smell my own scent.  Impossible. Unattainable.  I only know what I intended.  The perfume on my inner wrist, the hollow of my throat, placed carefully in the morning.  I cannot tell you how my body shifts the tones, only that it must happen.  A matter of chemistry.  I am not completely fanciful. 


See, text limits.  You cannot tell me either.  Even if you wanted to.


And of course, you have snuck into my text.  Invasive, invaded.  I need to map the ways I am overrun, the ways I am persuaded.  I can fortify if I can track you. If I can learn the location of the chinks you slip between.  But I am bad at mapping. I am even worse at defense.  See the way you enter, without effort?





*I am writing about maps these days. Strange essays that meander without direction, and I am drawn again to cartography.  The art of leaving things out to describe.  

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