My tits are melting. My armpits are melting. My eyes are melting. I’m producing more fluids than an orgy and feeling far less sexy.
Do people ever truly feel sexy in an orgy? Do people ever truly feel sexy when they’re melting?
sexy metal melting
hashtags of heat
extra savory salaciousness
never ending numerical
determinations of comfort
25, 31, 38
75, 82, 96
numbers, grades, degrees, and fahrenheit
Does knowing the melting point help ease the inevitable discomfort? Why are melting and freezing given points? Does the spectrum help humanize and personify our bodies subjugation?
Perhaps. Perhaps they remind us that we are subjects lined up on points and spectrums of creations we do not make but give name to. Are we no better than cretins or parasites? Viruses easily disturbed by numerical extremes. Or, maybe we are more like bacteria rather than a virus. Depending on the spectrum and refusing to fall off the edge.
Sometimes, I wish I could melt when the rain falls and that each drop would pull me down into the earth, down into its core, where the temperatures are unfathomable and it’s vulcan movement blends all the elements together to create new ones.
Sometimes, I wish all my elements had melted and been absorbed in the core, so I could no longer feel what it is to melt as my skin pools pockets of sweat in all my glorious folds and crevices sitting on the underground thinking about if they had dug just a little deeper, we would be in the belly of the Earth pulsing with her rhythms and reminded that it any minute she could swallow us whole, break us down, and make us into something new.
I once met a girl who had melted. She explained it quite matter-of-factly. She had gotten up that morning at her usual time, took the same tramline, and drank the same two latte macchiatos she always did. She was giving a presentation to a major tech company about the importance of employee engagement and receiving feedback when she pointed to the board realizing that there was a dripping stump where her index finger used to be. As the presentation continued, she was forced to slam her elbows on the keyboard to switch slides as her hands had completely dissipated. Yet, she persisted until her tongue had melted in her mouth, and she had accidentally swallowed it like you do with snot when you have a runny nose. She continued until all that was left were her shins and feet rigidly planted between the projector screen and the computer.
Three days later, the attendees submitted their presentation feedback report unanimously agreeing that it was the most informative presentation they had ever had, but the presenter herself was a bit “lackluster.”
She re-emerged two weeks later, still no head, swimming in the canal, splashing and bubbling about. She paddled through me as I melted into the Spree.
Hey Everybody! If you got some time and an open mind, check it out! This is my third ever podcast session, so I truly hope you enjoy the listen.
Colour is a powerful yet often overlooked force. In our hyperactive age, it’s easy to forget that colours have long solidified allegiance, status, brands, and tradition. Is it time to reconsider this everyday phenomenon? How, for example, might colour affect someone who is colorblind? What might skin tone indicate in a future society where whites are no longer the majority? And are we exploiting colour to toxic levels? Welcome to the Wicked Podcast, where imagination unfurls! PLUS: Following the outro music, hear a poem from our special guest, Nia Calloway — winner of April’s Wicked Poetry Slam also themed Colours.
My cat turned into a person this morning.
Going about doing her normal daily routines.
I watched a person shit in a box in front of me.
Eat from the floor. Sunbathe nude. Then turn back into my cat.
It was never going to happen. It was never supposed to happen, but his eyes opened. The heart monitor flatlined as he unplugged himself. Legs weak from dystrophy, they bowed beneath the weight of him. He toppled into a wheelchair reacclimating himself to being alive again.
Where was it coming from? The window was left open and the song was falling from the sky.
The hospital was hollow and the note drops echoed loudly on the roof. He climbed steps his muscles having forgotten how to do so. Forwards and upwards. Pushing the emergency bar to the roof, he was greeted by the the coarse morning air, and there she was, almost translucent. Hospital gown blowing in the moonlight, pale and thin, the waning moon radiated through her.
Stumbling forward behind his words, “I’ve been asleep.”
She turned around, eyes pressed deep into her skull, hollow cheeks, and skin wrapped tight over degenerating muscles. She looked into his eyes, “I refuse to die from this disease.”
She turned around, looked over her shoulder, “Welcome to this world,” and jumped.
Its interesting the adjectives we use to describe our actions or our life choices. When I first moved to Berlin, people would often say I was “brave” and “courageous” for following my dream and deciding to do what I chose to do, but what they don’t realize is the amount of fear involved because I wasn’t just following a dream. I was chasing a lifetime. A lifetime of linguistic specialist, speech pathologist, front-loaded learning, a parents divorce, that I was running not toward anything, but I was finally flexing my wings.
So you see, I don’t run, I fly, and the problem with dreams is that when they are uttered, we give power and raise gods, that’s a really intimidating thing to think about, to think about that possibly, “I could give birth to a god,” and here’s the other thing you have to understand, but, for women, we can do it twice over. With our physical bodies and with our minds. We do it thrice over with our emotions and our communities with our interpersonal understanding of each other’s commiseration.
So you see, people say that I am brave for going and doing this, but what they don’t realize is that I was giving birth to a god that expands beyond our adjectives.
For this week’s Translation Tuesday, inexplicable shapeshifting, bad table service, tangible numerals, and a loving friendship that defies spatial logic are on the menu in “Heimat who Lives in a Box,” written and translated from the German by A.E. Sadeghipour. In this surreal microfiction, a dinner date is marred by embarrassment and a rude (and seemingly inhuman) waitstaff. Sadeghipour’s ability to flout realism while preserving the conventions of the short narrative leads us to a conclusion that is both ironic and “happily ever after”-esque.
When I was a little girl
I was made fun of for being hairy
So when I heard Rob Zombie’s “Super Beast,”
I thought it was about me