freckles

eeggggs

 

in the begining <biblical reference> is the egg. 

(here the egg in the material reality is being presented for consumption)

                                                       hard-boiled.

At least we will not get fat on that diet, believe me, so spread wide.

 

[is the "I" what this eye sees  -or-  is the 'I" what I see?]

 

Nevermind, just spread wide your mouth.  For Their delight.

For They, the bureaucrats, who will never nourish either of us.

 

Eggstentialism and Eggistence.

[is the egg more than the Chicken -or-

the chicken the importance for which the egg exists?]

 

does memory bring it all into the present? is my thinking

only the present?  there is only now.  i am not recalling.

i am stating the now only the NOW, the IS.  is that

how you feel?  Profit the moment.

 

-i am a mess of memories, feelings, anxieties

 

but remembering refuses to touch the forgotten.

it is not our memory that continues to grow,  

but the forgotten.

 

 

to say that nothing is visible is untrue

i can see nothing, is not true,

 

but ->  saying nothing, as in a dream, rings true for too 

             many voices spread my lips apart

             and blackness would come

all over your hard-boiled egg.

 

{Conciousness cuts camera-like.  a sound instant.  from here to here

to here to here.  Conciousness in multiple places at once.  In the 

crowd of no people.

---

Egg: a round oval body laid by the omnipresent feminine.  The egg consists of several layers, which act to nourish or protect a developing center.  Eggs in modern capitalist patriarchy, are mass produced chicken eggs for human consumption regardless of the proven malnutrition that results from the consumption

I come from my mother/womb, Wendy Gold.

            +.5 of father.  (I’m a hybrid.)

 

I.               I come from Chicago.  I come from a line of ‘lholics.

I come from a life of over consumption and addicts, who will never reach full but be ever reaching.  Just desperately and blindly grasping overheaping handfuls with no bottom.

 

I come from American culture.  A history-line of pointing fingers everywhere but oneself.  Consistently forming endless creative ways to shovel any understanding of personal responsibilities further and further away.

 

I come from a hope of future sustaining prospects and ulterior motives.

 

I come from an accident/ surprise.  I come from an unwanted pregnancy.

I come from a hope for something better, something my parents never were.  I come from a lower-middle class standin.  I come from a place were the TV’s always on, if only for the sound of company.

 

I come from a one-way street of being influenced and no active influencing.  Where I was a little Nickelodeon, MTV and Dawson’s Creek. Entenmann donuts and Poptarts.  Until one day my ceramics teacher asked me, as I crumbled brown sugar cinnamon poptarts into my mouth over her computer, how I ate that and if I had any idea what was in it.  A question I had never considered before.  “I duno,” I mumbled while looking down at the royal blue plastic cover on the side, in a way I had never bothered to look at before.  “Mono… satur… um, chyl… it’s good,” I replied.  I played nonchalantly, while wondering if I knew what I meant by good.  Does good just mean my mother filled our cabinets with these blue wrappers?

 

I guess that was Nicole.  And like the name I was given, for a long time I let myself be given anything and learned to call it good.

 

II.             I didn’t really start consciously constructing my own identity until I didn’t graduate High School on time, and was tired of hearing myself explain to everyone that everyone but myself was to blame for my life’s problems. 

 

I am skin.  (and by I, I often mean we. Because we have more alike than we may be lead to believe)  And skin at one point began with no meaning, a time I can’t remember.  Sometimes I wish the skin could collapse and release me from the social construction – to remind everyone it has no meaning.  Because when time is gone it will again have no meaning.

 

-or- skin is that mask that only love can strip away. 

I truly believe that touch is the meaning of being human.

The way of knowing others.

And the world.

Touch, the basis of human knowledge and community, this basis seems to get lost sometimes in the sea of forgetfulness.

 

I have been asked why I am myself many times.  I’m still striving every time to come up with a new version for the “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours”.

 

I like to think that present reality runs like a stream.  This is only what my memory insists on.  These points of memory make me who I am.  And all that others find incomprehensible about me is explained by what I say in here.  I need to say I don’t care about being understood.  Memory is political.