I’m bleeding in a hole in Northcote. I’ve fallen off my skateboard and smashed my head on the concrete and it feels good for a second before it doesn’t. Something about seeing my blood outside of my body is pleasant to me. It’s different to menstrual blood, which is boring and too gendered; different to the sterility of blood tests. This feels like something I’m not supposed to see, which makes me excited to see it. This brief wonderment is eclipsed by my newfound awareness of how weak my body is. How thick my body feels with pain and how little I can do about it.
Bless: etymologically unrelated to bliss, but culturally the two have informed each other. Bless: to make holy, give thanks. Before this, the Proto-Germanic: hallow with blood, from Pagan rituals of sprinkling blood on altars. I don’t like the idea that devotion requires sacrifice. Too self-flaggelate-y. Shouldn’t love be nourishing?
My friends pull me out of the hole and drive me to hospital. I leave my blessing behind.
