Slice

Have you ever noticed how self-injuries (like most self-images I suppose) look completely wonky and out of proportion in your memories?

I just slipped while using one of my wedding-gift Wusthof knives, which we keep sinfully sharp, and managed to slice off a little chunk of my thumb and leave a big ugly flap hanging from my index finger. Now, I know by the amount of blood, and by sheer reason, that this is a fairly limited injury, but in my mind my finger is the size of a cucumber and that cut goes half way through it. Why is this?

I suspect this is a similar phenomenon to anorexic girls who draw themselves fat, or the reasons people imagine their pimples to be enormous and redder than they are. The play Copenhagen, which Sig hates but I love, has a brilliant line about how strange it is that the only person you can never see is yourself.

Case of You

I adore the song 'Case of You' by Joni Mitchell. My goodness does that woman have a good voice. It slides up and down, so delicate but deeply strong, giving this hint of something you can't quite detect behind the face of the music and simultaneously showing you all the way in.

I thought, though it's a little silly, that I would just print the lyrics to Case of You in poem form, for general enjoyment...

Just before our love got lost you said

I am as constant as the northern star.

And I said, 'Constant in the darkness.

Where's that at?

If you want me I'll be in the bar.'

On the back of a carton coaster,

In the blue TV screen light,

I drew a map of Canada, Oh Canada,

With your face sketched on it twice.

I am a lonely painter.

I live in a box of paints.

I'm frightened by the devil,

And drawn to those ones that ain't afraid.

I remember the time you told me,

Love is touching souls.

Well, surely you touch mine, 'cause

Part of you pours out of me

In these lines from time to time.

I met a woman.

She had a mouth like yours.

She knew your life.

She knew your devils and your deeds.

And she said, 'Go to him.

Stay with him if you can.

But be prepared to bleed.'

But you're in my blood like holy wine.

You taste so bitter and so sweet.

I could drink a case of you, darling,

And still be on my feet.

I would still be on my feet.

Sigh

I love the smell of kittens, and their furry little bellies. Ah...