so this must be why i do not feel like a natural being, why protecting a planet that doesn’t do much of anything for me seems foreign. well, there are a lot of reasons, but maybe one is this. that i don’t nibble myself to become clean. there is no nibbling at all. like my cat or the duck that floats on the water ten feet in front of me, preening in self-contained simplicity. it is a rigamarole for me to clean my body despite the fact no one would mistake me as a high-maintenance kind of gal. we are talking scented soap (supposedly differing in chemical make-up for face and hair and body), sharp pieces of metal, artificial raspberry cream aerosoled out of aluminum, a plastic netty thing-a-ma-gig bunched up on a string, a stone for exfoliating soles, two kinds of conditioner (one everyday, one “deep moisturizer”), and hot pressurized water gushing from above my field of vision. which is why i barely notice it is coming from a shower head. much less realize that it was pumped from some tank from some pipes below the ground to some other tanks from some other tanks (i have no idea how this works) connected to some water tower connected to some pumps connected to some treatment plant that treats the water to a bath that is pumped up from some magical underground lake. it is amazing to me the people who throughout the centuries stood in a river, using a bit of soap that was made from a pig their child named when it was born though they told her not to. there are so many steps and processes i don’t know. i am alienated from my soap, from the land, from my own armpit. what it would smell like or say after one week without belabored attention. just let me be. does it say that? just leave me to my stink, get your razor out of my face, your scented soap and foam, suffocating chalk stick. is it weird that when i sud up my hands in the kitchen sink, i want know the hellish squeal of a pig being slaughtered and my husband coming up behind me to nibble my ear with blood on his hands?
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