But what if some of us want to take our scars seriously? Maybe some of us haven’t gotten the highbrow-girl memo—​haven’t gotten the text message from our boyfriends—​about what counts as bathos. One man’s joke is another girl’s diary entry. One woman’s heartbreak is another woman’s essay. Maybe this bleeding ad nauseum is mass-​produced and sounds ridiculous—​Plug it up! Plug it up!—​but maybe its business isn’t done. Woman is a pain that never goes away.

Leslie Jamison (via millionsmillions)

Reblogged from millionsmillions

The skin is a woundable, wounded surface. The skin bears marks: scratches, scars, tattoos, ciphers. The skin is a continuous act of translation, a barrier to, and medium of, expression. The scar discloses history; a touch predicts.

A Whaler’s Dictionary, Dan Beachy-Quick

Before I moved out to NY, I didn’t think much about the idea of home or place. I grew up in a town that inspired a Green Day song (“My mother says to get a job / But she don’t like the one she’s got / When masturbation’s lost its fun / You’re fucking lonely”) and is known for shoplifters that carry axes and/or samurai swords. So that was never “it” for me. It always felt wrong to call it my hometown, because it’s not, and my parents have since moved. Lately though I’ve been realizing, my idea of hometown is much broader: more tied to fog-socked shores, quiet walks to corner markets, empty country roads and a car’s stereo, a dog sitting next to me on the couch, the sound of the coffee pot in the morning, splashing feet through shallow surf, the smell of fir trees and bite of wind and platter of raindrops across windowpanes.

Can a trace become the thing it traces, secure as ever, real as ever––a chosen set of echo-fragments?

That This, Susan Howe