The Body Knows Things A

There Was Nothing I Hated Worse Than Clumps Of Whispering Girls Who Got Quiet When I Passed. I Started Picking Scabs Off My Body And, When I Didn't Have Any, Gnawing The Flesh Around My Fingernails Until I Was A Bleeding Wreck. I Worried So Much About How I Looked And Whether I Was Doing Things Right, I Felt Half The Time I Was Impersonating A Girl Instead Of Really Being Me.

You've Got To Figure Out Which End Of The Needle You're Gon' Be, The One That's Fastened To The Thread Or The End That Pierces The Cloth.

Soul. The Word Rebounded To Me, And I Wondered, As I Often Had, What It Was Exactly. People Talked About It All The Time, But Did Anybody Actually Know? Sometimes I'd Pictured It Like A Pilot Light Burning Inside A Person--a Drop Of Fire From The Invisible Inferno People Called God. Or A Squashy Substance, Like A Piece Of Clay Or Dental Mold, Which Collected The Sum Of A Person's Experiences--a Million Indentations Of Happiness, Desperation, Fear, All The Small Piercings Of Beauty We've Ever Known.

Standing There, I Loved Myself And I Hated Myself. That's What The Black Mary Did To Me, Made Me Feel My Glory And My Shame At The Same Time.

The Question Occurred To Me: Well, If That's So, If The Divine Is Ultimately Formless And Genderless, What's The Big Deal? Why All This Bother? The Bother Is Because We Have No Other Way Of Speaking About The Absolute. We Need Forms And Images. Without Them We Have No Way Of Relating To The Divine. Symbol And Image Create A Universal Spiritual Language. It's The Language The Soul Understands.