Through the Automatic Car Wash

No one else ever even cops to having been conscious in a half-formed state. I don’t know what the big deal is. I remember when my front side was done but not my back; I recall when my face was only ¾ ready, I remember when I had no bones. Does it betray some weakness? Is it a gift? Is it a mistake to talk about it? It is what it is.
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Sometimes you meet people who haven’t walked through their souls yet. Maybe sometime they’ll be going through an automatic car-wash and the soul will be hovering there in the stream of suds. Maybe it’ll drift right through the windshield or maybe it’ll be repelled, pushed up and away, like those jet blowers. You’ll see them on Monday morning, and say, “Chaz! … You look good!” And then you wonder if your sudden burst of exuberance will be misinterpreted. And you realize it’ll only be worse if you say what you really mean.
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Yes, I went back and looked and of course I saw it; it exploded for me and fractured into an array like a firework. I don’t know now why I had to pretend to you that I didn’t see it, and ask you if you weren’t referring to another thing. It is true and not true. It doesn’t matter and it matters. It is my current project. It is the wedge I try to expel. It attempts to sever the vital side from the rote; thoughts and feelings and belief from action, and I say no, even though I don’t know what I am saying yes to. This is the thing I have not been able to see. I look every day and it is very close, I am very certain. But you know that making assurances is a big deal for the other side.
So, it takes time. Doubling back, and redoubling my efforts. Meantime, please excuse the double-speak; it is strangely necessary. And doubly thanks, from Miss Winnicott, as well.