Noli me Tangere

Baby steps are better than no steps at all. Keep going. You’ll get there.

She ran the back of her hand along the first shelf, listening to the shuffle of her fingernails gliding across the spinal chord of each book. It sounded like an instrument, or the notes of running feet.

Silence is inside the word as something to be read.

You can’t see yourself. You know what you look like because of mirrors and photographs, but out there in the world, as you move among your fellow human beings, whether strangers or friends or the most intimate beloveds, your own face is invisible to you. You can see other parts of yourself, arms and legs, hands and feet, shoulders and torso, but only from the front, nothing of the back except the backs of your legs if you twist them into the right position, but not your face, never your face, and in the end - at least as far as others are concerned - your face is who you are, the essential fact of your identity. Passports do not contain pictures of hands and feet. Even you, who have lived inside your body for sixty-four years now, would probably be unable to recognize your foot in an isolated photograph of that foot, not to speak of your ear, or your elbow, or one of your eyes in close-up. All so familiar to you in the context of the whole, but utterly anonymous when taken piece by piece. We are all aliens to ourselves, and if we have any sense of who we are, it is only because we live inside the eyes of others.

I feel like a time traveler: June, July, August. Summer dissolves in my mouth and I can’t remember what it tasted like.