The Unlikely Story of the Body Who Loved the World

Sometimes, I say body and feel like a woman who is speaking at a women’s circle in Venice Beach, or a freshly divorced woman talking to her sex therapist. When I say it, there is a kind of histrionic, ironic distance, a nice buffer, a soft layer I enjoy, which is also the layer between me and English. A kind of blue goo, something soft that cushions the blow, the wound of language. My husband says I swear a lot in English. It’s true, I enjoy it. Apparently, I regularly pile swear words on top of each other to make…