Exhibit

Exhibit: "To put something on display."

since i've been getting medical attention, i put myself on display: i'm an exhibit and the meds make me less inhibited than ever. it was kind of like i was outside my body, up above the bed looking down on my body laying on the bed. i didnt care if i was under the covers or half naked on top of the blankets. the sheets were thin, the blankets were thin and light blue, the pillows had a fleshy hue to them and the smell of medicine. i could look down from the ceiling as i floated up above the hospital bed and look at myself laying there. nothing bothered me about my legs gripping the side of the bed and riding the sheets, waiting for the lab techies to come in and take blood. i didnt care if the blinds on the windows were up or down. the door could be open or closed; it didnt bother me either way. i got really good at taking self-portraits. i took better photos of myself than i ever had from any body else.

even now, when i'm alone, i can see shadows move at the corner of my eyes, they move around the doors and windows, i can see them. i look really fast but there's nothing there. in the hospital room, it was dark sometimes, and i could see shadows move across the walls, i could feel my hands touch my skin like as if it was the skin of some other thing. i started to listen and in the dark, against the wall, i could hear whispering sounded like my own voice talking to myself. i'd take photos of my feet, my hands, my legs, my eyes, my face and hair, my shoes, my arms...i'd take photos from above on the ceiling floating around up near the walls and put the photos in an exhibit, like a public display that was better than anything else i could do. and i couldnt stop. there was always something more to see. more to do. more places to go at night alone. i took long walks out in the garden wearing nothing but a robe, and carrying roses and a camera phone. i wouldnt even wear shoes and socks. i would go down the hall and nobody would even see me or hear me breathe. i went to the hospital library and took out books that were written about narcissism and nihilism. i read them in bed. i memorized them in the shower. i recited them to my nurses and doctors and lab techies when they took blood.

i took photos of the hair on my toes, little gentle slightly sensuous hairs on my toes, my hands and fingers, very soft hairs that photographed well. in the dark, in bed, there was a light behind me, behind my bed that i kept on all night in case i woke up and wanted to read or take photographs of my bed. i took hundred of pictures of my body in different positions on the bed, on the floor, in the shower, in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, shadows on the wall, in the hallways, hanging from the ceiling. i took pictures of the blood being sucked out of me by the lab techies in the middle of the night, around 2am, or 3am...they'd come in one at a time and tie me off and pull the blood out and we'd talk and i'd take photos. self-portraits. i got good at doing different angles and colors. the light from outside would make great shadows against the back of my head. i could read with my eyes closed. and i could listen to jazz all night. the photos got better and the jazz got louder. the legs on the chairs werent as attractive as my own legs, but i took photos of all of it. i was preparing an exhibit of my body and my mind and i was going to stay up late every night until i had the photos put together in a complete package. but i never could stay awake long enough.

i fell asleep and had dreams. always dreams. my hands and arms grew longer and my fingers were able to reach everything and hold onto the doors. i went into the shower and the water was so hot. i took off my clothes and sat on the floor of the shower and let the water slice my body in different shapes. i took the camera and snapped photographs of my legs falling off and clinging to the side of the shower wall. they looked so sensuous hanging there. beautifully shaped. the skin tone is beautiful and dark, like a tan from mexico in the summer laying on the heavy salt water. i was still in the hospital in the morning and the door was unlocked but i didnt care if anyone saw me or not. i didnt have any clothes, and so i was on the bed under the white sheets and i could see my skin through the thin sheets and i could hear the drummer next door pounding and beating his drums, playing a solo with the bass player. it was so good. my photos came out great and i could eat whatever i wanted, whenever i wanted, as often as i wanted to eat. little portions of food, fruit, meat, water, coffee......whatever i wanted, whatever food made my body hard and tight and beautiful to look at it.

i got dizzy. i got hot. i couldnt stand straight up. i couldnt walk in a straight line. my mind was thinking backwards, like the words were being pronounced backwards. but it didnt matter to me as long as i could see the mirror that was hanging on the wall in front of my bed. it was so quiet at night, even with the window open. even with the sirens screaming and the girl next door making noise. i think she had her boyfriend over there with her banging her head against the wall, banging the bed against the wall right by my head where i put it on the pillow and tried to sleep; but i didnt try very hard. i tried to sit up in bed but i'd slip down beneath the blanket. the sheet was wet because i was sweating. the heater was too high and i couldnt turn it off. this wasnt a dream, either. this was the normal stuff that happened every night and every day. the only thing i could do to pass the time was to take photos of myself, photos of my legs, my boots and my feet, my hands, my stomach, my head and my face. i'd find ways to take pictures using different lighting effects. i'd go down the hallway, i'd walk to the bathroom, climb in the shower night after night, and find ways to get a new viewpoint. i'd find ways to let the damp night air climb into the room and get in bed with me and massage my legs until i'd drift off to dreamland. i took so many drugs, so much medication, so many pills in little plastic cups.

i had a calendar in the closet and i'd look at it every day or so to see where i was at, to see how many days i had left before i'd get out. i marked off the time with little marks on the wall using a small pocket knife, marking little notches in the wood, in the wall so i could count the days and the nights. my body was getting thnner and thinner. i was losing weight. i was getting fevers at night. my shoes didnt fit me anymore. the drugs were making my eyes blurry and the money in my wallet was turning into sand. i had piles of sand in the drawers. the bathroom mirror was full of sand. my shoes wouldnt fit me. my fingers were getting too big for my hands. i had to wear gloves but the only ones i could find were red. my room was red. everything was red. i tried to call my doctor and get more meds. i tried to get in the elevator and go to the 6th floor and play the piano but it wouldnt go that high. i tried to climb the stairs but the doors wouldnt open. nothing worked right. the pills were making me dizzy. i couldnt sit up. my legs looked long and lean and i thought about buying new blue jeans, but thinking about it gave me a headache and made my ears ring, buzz, hiss. it was really bad.