The Spirit Bleeds

‘The spirit is alive,’ Paul begins, ‘it pulls out your soul.’ I was flipping through this book when I noticed this fat man in a picture. Large hands. Who is this, I ask Paul. He stares, pauses, then squints. ‘Looks like a fellow from Ephesus I once knew.’ Paul rubs his belly. ‘He always rubbed his belly.’ I tear out the page, I want to store it somewhere. But where? ‘As I was saying,’ Paul continues, ‘it pulls it out, it kicks it against the wall.’

‘The wall is your body, your skin,’ Paul pinches me, ‘imagine how that felt on the inside.’ He sits at this little chair, I find some more pictures and begin tearing each one out. One by one. ‘Imagine if the spirit could spit it would burn a whole upon your skin. A little dark at first, then, the burn would slowly grow until you ignited.’

My little pile of pictures slowly grows, I notice Paul rubbing his fingers across the torn edges. Sanding his finger nails. ‘For each of your bruises the spirit is bruised tenfold,’ Paul pours a little water on the table, ‘pull your finger across.’ I set down my magazine and place my palm into the water. Within minutes the entire table is covered in water. ‘The spirit bleeds.’

‘Imagine the body of that fat man,’ Paul puts his hands on top of mine, we begin to wipe the table in unison, ‘he could hardly be contained. Flesh speaks for itself, it speaks because of the pull from inside.’ I notice Paul’s hands growing warm. His finger tips turn yellow. ‘from somewhere deep we are all pleasure and desire.’

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About Rene Diebenkorn

Lifetime Artist. ETC.

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