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Show 147 seen me in the spring. The entry ran on for several pages, describing the silvery scales which sometimes occur and the areas most often affected. There wasn't much for me to learn. I was the fishwoman; they didn't know why. They suspected climate and weather, toxins and irritants that refused to be named. They were looking into allergens and fungi and diet and wondered about chemical imbalance. I hated them for their ignorance. At the end there was a single paragraph on the treatments indicated. Ultraviolet light ("orindary sunlight is best") and baths ("warm, frequent, and regular"). Sun and water, it was all they knew. Sun and water. I have been moving back and forth, from one to the other, all my life. Today, for instance, I had a bath just before noon, spent the afternoon in the garden, and now I've just had another bath. I'm sitting on the bed, naked, drying. I can see myself in the mirror across the room. It is only my disease that keeps me from being a good-looking woman, and this time of the year is the worst because my skin is actually at its best; pink, that's all, pink and slightly rough to the touch. So close to normal. In a dull light you would hardly notice the million pinpoints of red. I wear my hair down to my breasts. My eyes are a deep blue, my eyelashes long. My weight is correct for my height, and I know its distribution is right too. I polish my toenails. When I was younger the injustice of it drove me crazy. I would |