(Dis)articulation

With a heavy exhalation of breath I am admitting defeat. Or rather, I am succombing to the gravitational pull of the blog phenomenon. I am a few years behind. I admit it. I am shelving the journal; surrendering my periodic diary of dys(fun)ctional diahrrea to the internet, and all the advantages and lack thereof that ensue. To all you voyeurs of emotional and intellectual (in)stability, perhaps this small effort will keep me more faithful to writing. I have turned my back and I'm regretting it. Too much builds up and I am feeling the pressure at the back of my throat which means I am going mute until I bleed this urge. . . 


I have been thinking a lot about fractals. Fragments. Disarticulation:

I have always been fascinated with this word. I was reminded of it again recently, while watching the Discovery Channel. The show was about the search for a man who had completely dismembered a woman, until she was unrecognizable; arms and legs in four separate bags; torso in another; head in another; skin and nose removed from face. 

Do not think me morose because I was not at a loss of compassion for the woman. In fact I felt deeply wounded by the story, but my emotion was fittingly disarticulated from my captivation with the [word]. Because it means, literally, dis    jointed; amputation with a surgical precision that avoids contact with bone entirely. 

The funny thing about the word is that it seems at the surface to mean the opposite of it's definition. To dis-articulate seems to mean making something less explicit. But the very definition hinges on acts of the utmost precision. I am going back and forth with myself as to whether it would fall under the guidelines of Janus words which are words that can be used in two instances having diametrically opposite meanings. (Like 'cleave' can be to join or separate, or 'screen' can mean to show or hide.)

Disarticulation can also apply to the emotional realm of life. For instance: I feel like this week has disarticulated me to the point of gestalt. (Funny. I am merging the two words in my head. Gestalt and disarticulate. I keep coming back to gesticulate. That is important somehow, I think.) I digress. I feel like this week has disarticulated me to the point of gestalt...that is, something that is unidentifiable by it's pieces. 

                    Something that only makes sense as a whole. 

I think all the wrinkles in my brain have been unravelled and pulled out my ears and stretched skyward like gravity was curious how things felt handstanding for a while. And I'm not sure if I'm trying to climb back to the top, or fall up, or just avoid the tangle of the noose.  

I hate when I feel like a Salvadore Dali painting.

I am coming into words, which means that outside of the page, they evade me. There is one to whom I have committed the crime of utter omission. And everyone keeps asking me what is wrong. And everyone keeps asking why I'm so quiet.                                     And far away.

I guess, what I mean to say is...here I am. Or, I am here.  And it is really hard to leave (this alone). How can this exist, fragmented and whole at the same damn time? There is one to whom I have committed the crime of Janus. 

Forgive me

                                                        that I

                   might be,

                                                                              slightly,

      disarticulated,

                             

                                            (you).