Tremors

I find myself in front of a mirror.  Morning or night, naked or near naked.  This is a matter of practicality and not of narcissism, proximity to this cracked sink defines the utility of this place, in this moment.  I am not here for the view.  This is a simple task of hygiene.  And to be honest, it has always challenged me--the same old lassitude of an uncertain future erodes my commitment to this ritual; I am easily persuaded by the sloth so symptomatic of despair.  Hence, it is not a small thing to have arrived here.  To  find myself standing here, water running, in the nude is something even if in the end I am unable to engage for five (vigorous) minutes in the act of brushing my teeth.  The mint swirl sits gingerly on the bristled surface.  I hurry the balanced blob into my mouth.  Spit-activated, the paste  begins to fizz and lifting my elbow up into a kind of salute, I start to scrub.

Add to this challenge the tremors, the epicenter is in me.  My feet, unable to find balance, are awkwardly beneath me, searching for a stance, a position.  There is no marbled me rising out of the tiles.  I wobble, a little.  I am posed as a mannequin in quicksand.  I try to stand.  Still, the surface of the Earth is made of unanswered questions, unsure ground.  I am quietly panicked, trembling from ankle, calve, knee, and thigh until the belly--big, hairy, gelatinous--takes to shaking.  Laughter is a halfhearted excuse for the temblor.  But don't be frightened.  The fragments of the sculpture you would have been are scattered; meanwhile, notes are boxed and archived.  Hinted at, you will be found among these ruins.  Faultless now, you are more, you have become whole continents colliding, realigning, mountains crumbling and the humbling continuity of creation.