A Self Portrait (A Practice)

The muscles and tendons in my left shoulder complain, but the lull of the freeway mixed with birdsong helps me forget. Living beside a freeway my whole life means that this ringing in my ears never quite leaves but, without it, the ringing becomes maddening. My chaotic desk of papers, books, unpaid bills, and the final moments of a bag of corn chips looks like the inside of my head. To me, they all make sense in the space; to others, my desk is a mess. I try to sit as ergonomically as I can, but am constantly pulled back into a hunch. A habit created in the sad years, like so many others. I've developed so many ways to cope. Each fragment of my memory only makes sense when observed as a whole but, if viewed from that angle, it would just be noise. I have to group clumps of my memory by category or sensation. My wrist joins the groaning of my shoulder as my fingers remain suspended over the keyboard, then move to organize all the things I consider "pens."

Notes on this practice:

• Definite sensation immersion
• Interesting phrase "A habit created in the sad years..."
• Cut "I've developed so many ways to cope." It adds nothing and feels clunky
• Needs a clear story, more cohesion