If I have a body
then it is an archive
I’ve been sick for the past few days. Snotty. Sneezy. Wheezy. It’s a cold, not covid, thankfully. But I have been really knocked out, and there is nothing like immobility and chicken soup to remind you, to remind me, of body things.
If I have a body, then it is an archive.
If that body is mine, surely it is not only mine, but let us pretend for a moment that this body of mine is me in my flesh, then it holds this virus.
If that virus is a body like mine, then we are at war.
If we are at war, then this is a song.
If this is a song, though, then it is neither triumphant nor elegy, but a percussive insinuation, finger tapping and insistent, fading but not lost, a humming, a memory.
And if this body is an archive of me, viral, at war, at song, then is this body not also, if not primarily, the rising force of eagerness, spent on approximations of what was once, simply rhythm.
(not me, but very much a body like mine)
