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30 Embodied The soul as soap bubble keening, always nearby, tethered to the body— We were asked and practiced early the contemplation of the soul. The soul’s tar of deeds, keeping it from heaven made sense. It had its work cut out for it. Body never garnered any comment. Body went without saying. Confounded mystery everyone resolved. But how? The body, always shifting— soap again, round and embellished to begin, then paring down, losing detail, a crescent in the end, bare. Body driven, directed, compelled. Body considered soul no more than a jet engine its passenger. Vroom. Listen to that thrum coming from red muscles packs of platelets, oxygenation. Roar of real—not yet readable. Something about the body I never understood— always on the outside, trying to get in. ...

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