Will you take my picture?
Will you make me look manly, or pretty, or happy? Will you make it look like my world is just wonderful - full of joy and excitement and the things of good memories? Will you carefully depict my suffering and make my internal anguish beautiful? Will you use me to rage against the machine of injustice? Will you make me perfect, and imperfect, and all those things in between?
Don't. Don't tell me a lie with your truth. Don't sharpen the image, don't doctor the dream. Don't make me, see, because I want to tell you something. I want to show you. Who. I. Am.
I respect you. I know that without practice and interest and devotion to the craft you could not hear me. But today, while you are with me, I need you to put that aside. Do not be the writer who knows about writing. Do not be the painter who knows all the colours and brushes and canvas. Please do not picture an event, or represent something with an image. I am a beauty, not a project. Watch me, don't develop me. Because I want to talk to someone. I need you to hear me.
And so, I need you to be you. Because the heart does not talk to artists. Artists talk to hearts. But hearts, hearts talk to people.
You will have to be couragous. When I am down, you will have to be out. And when I am grasping for staws, you'll have to watch me flounder.
You'll have to be daring. Prepared to find adventure where strangeness once was. You'll have to risk being too close to me.
You'll have to be real. I'll love too hard, long too hard, laugh too hard and work too hard. You'll have to listen for every moment, because they can't be interpreted and they will never happen again.
You'll have to photograph me while I cry.
~~~
People who saw me repeatedly over the first few weeks of my recovery from heart surgery often remarked that I "had a lot more colour" upon their later visits. Of course, the first days in the hospital, I didn't feel like I was pale. I felt like I went out for a few too-many beers with Death the night before. Hell, when I first woke up I was still buzzed! How I looked was not really an issue I was interested in.
Of course, as I can often be found remarking when my slobbery takes over, I didn't have to look at myself. That's everyone else's problem. And there are very few mirrors in hospitals.
I suppose no one wants to see themselves in hospitals. It's not a time that anyone wants to remember. Facing one's own mortality, from a stubbed toe to death row, is not a picture perfect moment. There aren't many "hunks" on hospital beds.
But, I have always found certain comfort in pictures. The raw ones. The pictures that you take half-assed drunk at the bowling alley, or in the fall at the local park. When I broke up with my girlfriend an eternity ago, the first time I felt "whole" again was when I went out on the town with my friends and saw myself in those new pictures aftewards. That trick, despite the few pictures I have, never ceases to work when I'm feeling down or need to start fresh.
I have the great fortune to know some very talented photographers. On a couple of occasions I've been able to evesdrop on ideas for photo-projects, and been able to steal peeks into costume shots. I can't count how many times I've seen wedding and engagement and baby photos this past summer. All of them beautiful, and somehow magically representitive of their models. Breathtaking.
And the best ones are those real ones. Ones where you see the picture before the project. The man before the magic. Those are the pictures that demand my infinite respect, admiration, and envy for those talented and wonderful artists.
In writing, I've known the desire and joy of working on a project, or contributing to an artistic idea. There's really nothing like it. But the most comfortable I've ever been in writing is when the speaker and the writer are one. When I write "I".
They say that my new heart valve has a "shelf life" of about 15 years. I think I'd like to have my picture taken next time. I'd love a whole photo-journal, actually. I wonder what my colourless face looks like on painkillers. I wonder what it has to say.
There are stories within me that simply can't be told with words. I'd like to tell them.
- Z
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Holding Up The World
For six weeks I have watched my silver neck chain sit on the nightstand in my mother's guestroom.
For six weeks my ritual was the same. I would roll off the bed, literally, and be faced with the decision between jeans or khakis. Then, dutifully deciding on what I thought was best, I struggled to put on my pants with as little bending as possible. Next was the shirt - a collection of all button up shirts to make the task easier. Socks were a necessary evil - my mother's place is paradise with the floors paved cold. Then I could meaningfully take up my effects. Wallet in one pocket, phone and keys in the other. Tissue was an optional accessory; a house that had raised 3 children was amply able to handle any sniffle situation on its own. And then on with my glasses, and a moment's pause in honour of the silver chain which rested next to them.
It reminded me of my mother, and it made me feel successful. Contrary to its description, this chain was a liberation. When it was around my neck, it held me fast to who I was - who I am - on the inside. And before the surgery, I wore it every day.
But sacrifices had to be made, in the name of well-being, including the emotionally fashionable. My chain, when worn, lay right on top of the largest part of my chest incision. An incision that was open, and then was raw, and then was other things that are equally unpleasant. To ensure its proper healing, the chain must be left off. It would only serve to irritate.
I always knew how much I enjoyed that little trinket but, as the wisdom goes - knowing it's raining is different from being wet. I felt naked without it, in all the empty meanings of the cliche.
Two days ago, the incision had healed enough. I did not tell my mother, but I had been secretly giddy about this day. This was just as exciting as Christmas. The incision had turned into a bright red scar much earlier, but I wanted to be sure, and I wanted it to be the right time. No point in giving something meaning if you're not going to treat it as a symbol, after all. And so, after I got back from my follow up appointments and had been told it was time to return to a more normal life, I knew it was time for the silver chain.
I had a lengthy shower to make sure I was fresh. Clean clothes were required as well; the only-worn-twice ones were not good enough for this moment. I decided, after careful thought, to not shave. I looked manlier that way; worthier of the event. Then the chain was polished, made new again. Finally, with the morning sun washing across the street and flooding the windows, I put on my chain.
There was a subtle and delightful weight to it. A weight I had not noticed before - because, I suppose, I had always carried it. But now, emerging from this life of careful healing and awareness, the weight was obvious. There was a weight to being me.
I could only grin. Like Atlas carrying the world I dutifully carried my chain. This was the smallest and most important of the burdens I would have to shoulder in the coming months. Now, more than ever, I was aware of who I was becoming and who I wanted to be. And while I may not know every step of the journey, that weight reminds me that I am walking. I'm holding my own Becoming.
Silver and body-flesh red don't really look great, but I think they go very well together.
- Z
For six weeks my ritual was the same. I would roll off the bed, literally, and be faced with the decision between jeans or khakis. Then, dutifully deciding on what I thought was best, I struggled to put on my pants with as little bending as possible. Next was the shirt - a collection of all button up shirts to make the task easier. Socks were a necessary evil - my mother's place is paradise with the floors paved cold. Then I could meaningfully take up my effects. Wallet in one pocket, phone and keys in the other. Tissue was an optional accessory; a house that had raised 3 children was amply able to handle any sniffle situation on its own. And then on with my glasses, and a moment's pause in honour of the silver chain which rested next to them.
It reminded me of my mother, and it made me feel successful. Contrary to its description, this chain was a liberation. When it was around my neck, it held me fast to who I was - who I am - on the inside. And before the surgery, I wore it every day.
But sacrifices had to be made, in the name of well-being, including the emotionally fashionable. My chain, when worn, lay right on top of the largest part of my chest incision. An incision that was open, and then was raw, and then was other things that are equally unpleasant. To ensure its proper healing, the chain must be left off. It would only serve to irritate.
I always knew how much I enjoyed that little trinket but, as the wisdom goes - knowing it's raining is different from being wet. I felt naked without it, in all the empty meanings of the cliche.
Two days ago, the incision had healed enough. I did not tell my mother, but I had been secretly giddy about this day. This was just as exciting as Christmas. The incision had turned into a bright red scar much earlier, but I wanted to be sure, and I wanted it to be the right time. No point in giving something meaning if you're not going to treat it as a symbol, after all. And so, after I got back from my follow up appointments and had been told it was time to return to a more normal life, I knew it was time for the silver chain.
I had a lengthy shower to make sure I was fresh. Clean clothes were required as well; the only-worn-twice ones were not good enough for this moment. I decided, after careful thought, to not shave. I looked manlier that way; worthier of the event. Then the chain was polished, made new again. Finally, with the morning sun washing across the street and flooding the windows, I put on my chain.
There was a subtle and delightful weight to it. A weight I had not noticed before - because, I suppose, I had always carried it. But now, emerging from this life of careful healing and awareness, the weight was obvious. There was a weight to being me.
I could only grin. Like Atlas carrying the world I dutifully carried my chain. This was the smallest and most important of the burdens I would have to shoulder in the coming months. Now, more than ever, I was aware of who I was becoming and who I wanted to be. And while I may not know every step of the journey, that weight reminds me that I am walking. I'm holding my own Becoming.
Silver and body-flesh red don't really look great, but I think they go very well together.
- Z
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