Body Talk

‘When we are under chronic stress, our muscles twitch because they think that at any moment, action will be required of them. So they are, in a sense, gearing up for the fight or flight, kind of like a track sprinter dragging his foot backward on the track as he prepares for the race. Anxiety tells the muscles, “Get ready. On your mark, get set…”

But the “go” never happens, because the stress is not of a life-threatening nature (such as a charging bison, falling rock or hissing snake of ancient times). So the muscles remain in idle, like a car at a stop light. The engine is on, but the car goes nowhere. The engine, in this case, is the muscle twitching. They are not relaxed. They are anticipating.’

My foot is telling me that I am thinking about her

and him

as I watch television with both feet propped on the coffee table sat next to

a half empty bottle of Irn Bru

which is flat.

There is a red light from the TV that bounces off the light from the window

and mixes

mixes inevitably with the dust in the air that I am breathing in

and out, but most of it is sticking

clamping, holding onto me inside my windpipe

my finger taps an fast rhythm to a jovial song

that I don’t know and isn’t being sung


The foot is uncorordinated, geekish in it’s independant flail,

like an awkward relative who springs his limbs away from him

on a new Years Eve dance floor.

But its moving like an alarm

trying to tell me that I’m thinking about him

and her

and I should really think about him

and her

but I won’t let the message get up past that white, pointed bone that

sticks out of my ankle.

Perhaps something is trying to speak to me, but rather I inhale slowly,

pushing my tongue sloppily against the roof of my mouth

to act as a filter.

As if I might keep out what flies, and lives in the air around me,

and only take in what might not hurt me.

I can feel the eye beginning to go,

the featherlight vibration of a rabbits foot

and I wonder if I could stand to go and get up a cup of tea

or if I am too shaky to pour the milk.

I am shaking.


Hello Yellow

I made this account more than a year ago, and have never posted a word.

I created it when I was feeling bored and reflective, like I had a lot to say but no real motivation to say it. I thought that if there were things I might like to eventually discuss, then this might be the place to begin to discuss it.

’20 mg of fluoxetine’ was going to be the title of my first blogpost, but now it is 40mg and I wonder if the increase in dose has really given me anything else to say, but this is a small thing I wrote for my creative writing class, on the subject of pill-taking.

Fourty Miligrams of Fluoxetine

Fourty Miligrams swallowed easily in bed with the bitter inch of tea at the bottom of a cup. The tea bag is still slumped inside like a bag of soggy potatoes. For the first time in a few days I didn’t taste those pills clinging to my oesophagus all day. It was a superior cup of tea, earl grey bag left in. I can hear my mother’s voice saying ‘Filthy Habit.’

The colour of crocus’ is so sweet and buttery, they look like a Willy Wonka creation. It is a colour that only happens in nature, as if it were a colour exclusive to being alive. The softness of the petals makes the yellow deep and lustful, like sunshine, made up of movement and vitality. A gorgeous, sumptuous colour of rebirth after winter.

Fourty miligrams, taken with a cup of tea. Down easy. Very yellow.

When I see a snow drop I am reminded of a woman’s clitoris. To put an ‘a’ in front of the word ‘clitoris’ makes it sound suddenly alien, and disconcerting. As if it might have a mind of its own, which might be true of the male equivalent but I have never heard of a woman being lead entirely by her sexual organ. Snow drops are so delicate, intricate little white hoods, and somehow the way they tremble in the breeze makes me tingle. They are so vulnerable, on fine, lithe stems but ferociously open budded, like a cabaret girl.

The yellow of a crocus bud on the other hand is like the feeling of being kissed. It is a plump, bulbous colour, and unbearable speckle of softness against the grass. A colour only in nature, where else can you find it?

There are of course, lesser man-made versions. But the decadent yellow of surprise becomes a gloomy mustard, mustard with a dollop of mayonnaise mixed in. It is the colour of ready-meals, of old ladies string handbags, and the salty taste of tinned soup. The pills I take are this colour, half of them a muted green like a hospital gown. There I have it, the grass against the crocus colours, the essence of colour and life are locked away inside them. The promise of vibrant, fragile newness.

A discussion of colour is really something else entirely, I am watching this take shape. A commentary on something I love about the world, about the fantastic beauty of the unexpected, turned into my every day consumption – the diluted reality of who I am. A less alive colour, taken with a cup of tea.