Wounds

            I am an illustrated man. From head to toe, my scars define me. Each one tells a story, pinpointed not with words but in display. It is not difficult to find them. All you really have to do is take the time to look. They stand for themselves, ever present even though so much time has passed. Most have deepened, blending in the eventual bliss. They have become old friends, always there when you seek them out. They are constant, transparent and deliberate at base. They even tend to mock me. They are in my face reminders of how things used to be. They are very specific. The tale each conveys is distinct, unto itself. Awareness of them can be a considerable challenge on my sadder days. They are stark at times, almost calculated as if part of some map. Follow the pain and they always remain. At times, they are embraced, representational, landmarks born on my journey. They notarize just how I made it through. At other times, they are heavy, pulling me back, so far back. They are more than just connected to my memory. They are a tactile revelation. Scars are remnants, little pieces, sometimes large, that rarely ever fade away. You can touch them. You can see them.

            Within 24 hours of my birth, I was covered in marks. One of the first things they did to me was snip my cord and tie me off. To this day, it has always looked the same. I am an innie, not an outtie. I came with more than birthmarks. I could show you my bar mitzvah scar. From the start, I was damaged goods. I still hold that they must serve some purpose, I am just not so sure what that is. They are older than my teeth and younger than my tongue. I may not relive each experience, I was barely alive. I am told I almost left the match before I started fighting. Fight I did, and I have the marks to prove it. Had I not survived, there would be nothing left to heal. At 3 years old, I was a little shit. I wasn’t malicious or nasty about it, I just got myself into constant trouble. I wanted it my way almost from the very start. When my brothers got a hockey board for Christmas, and not me, I was pissed. This wasn’t some cheap plastic play set but rather the real deal, with metal men and shooting action. It was an official NHL product. I tried to crush it like any spoiled brat would. I huffed and puffed and attacked with my right foot. Those metal hockey men were as sharp as razors. They cut through the bottom of me like I was brie cheese on a warm summer day. I am told there was much blood and the gnashing of teeth. They rejuvenated me. They fixed it right up except for the thin little scar tissue that ripples at the bottom of my leg. I can barely see them now but they are still there. They always have been, as far as I am concerned.

            The mark from one of the canines left a permanent monument to one of my greatest childhood fears. At the base of my right thumb it remarkably remains. It is highly visible, somewhat pronounced and an interesting catalyst for conversation at small wine and cheese parties. It was an Irish Setter that did the deed. He gnarled my hand like one of those doggie toys. He shook me in, he shook me out, he even yanked me all about. It was like the beginning of my own little nightmare as he chewed to the bone, then ran away. Unfortunately, his saliva did much more damage. This was not the best time to learn I was allergic to the stuff. My arm swelled up red like the balloon from Stephen King’s IT. As I sat screaming in the Emergency room, puss started oozing from the entry wound. It eventually sealed itself up and therein marks the spot. The 400-pound steam radiator was left at the top of the stairs by my brother Phillip. I only nicked it as I passed to go downstairs. We fell together in some sick harmony. I was pummelled against the wall all the way down, a split pipe ripping open my backside. It landed on me, full force, dead weight, embedding itself on my left foot. It toppled on the rest of me. 6 months later and the scar started to heal. Everything had been crushed, everything had been squished like the last donut at the bottom of the bag. The skin graft has always looked quite nasty. 40 years later and I still have a slice of my ass where the rest of my foot should be. I have a high tolerance for pain. This scar, it healed me strong. It has lightened and blended into me like most scars will do. It is a constant reminder for me of pain and anguish and the randomness of this life we all lead. I can remember every moment as if it were happening now. When I forget, all I have to do is look down.

            If you pay close attention to my skin, you will notice little white scars all over my hands and arms. They are pock marks, left from burning off warts, warts gained by falling into a cesspool. I hardly notice them at all. Funny how some scars mean more than others. Funny how we assign importance to the marks we gain through life. I pulled the knife away from him. It sliced through my three middle fingers like that brie I left sitting out earlier. I secured the weapon. I should have gotten stitches but my threshold for pain made me stoic. It left a nasty cicatrix from finger to finger to finger. I have always been prone to accidents. I have always managed to walk right into them. My head looks like a Pollack piece, some abstract expressionist painting. Over the years, I have walked into things, smashed into things and met many a corner of this shelf or that cupboard. If dents are a sign of duration, I am in for the long haul. You can see them, notice them, even if you are not trying to. Some of the scars on my head are clearly defined, they look more like a mole than a hole in the top of my noggin. You can feel them, like Braille. They tell a tale of accident prone and little else.

            My paternal Grandparents’ home has a long narrow staircase leading to the second floor. I whipped around it to see what my brother was doing. The dart entered me as easy as pie, considering the distance down the flight of stairs and the momentum it was tossed at. It stuck dead into the ball of my nose. I had to tug on it hard to get it out. It left a small but noticeable mark, like a tiny little bump where the hole used to be. I fear it may someday start glowing like Rudolph’s might do. During my morphine addiction, I snapped off a syringe needle while trying to find a virgin area to shoot up. Under my right arm was just the ticket. I had to use tweezers to squeeze it out. The inch long ridge of raised flesh feels more like a bead beneath my skin than scar tissue. I run across it every time I shower. There are bits and pieces missing from me. A chunk of me here and a chunk of me there, from cats and rats and other things. I can play connect the dots with almost every part of my body. There is a fading indent on my forehead, from crashing my bike, and the square patch of my ass that stays white even in the summer sun. Skin grafts will do that, they say. In relation, there is a faint but tangible line down the middle of my back from when I hit that pipe on the way down those stairs. I have two holes in my left ear from piercings I had done in the 1980s. They have never really closed up even after 30 years not using them. Some scars we make ourselves, we are responsible. Sometimes life and other people do the deed for us. Cut and paste, so to speak. Most notable, most worthy, is the 2-inch slash on my left wrist I made during a decision to die. It was a bloody mess. It left me a touchstone, the one thing I can turn to in times of pain and struggle. It tells the whole story in 5 centimetres of flesh. It is a constant reminder, right in my face, that this too shall pass, whether you want it to or not.

            No matter how much time has passed, I continue to be accident prone. It just comes naturally for me. It can seem unending. Last year, I tripped on one of my cats while heading up the stairs to the second floor. I smashed face first into one of the landing walls. One of my canines flew out of my mouth and across the floor. The other upper canine had to be later removed because it cracked in half. If not for very expensive dentures, you could see quite clearly the worst scars of all. I sometimes feel like I belong in the movie Deliverance, plucking on my banjo while chewing on a blade of this or that. Finally, I now fit in at every Wal-Mart. I think I look like I belong in every dollar store in my area. I have great resolve in accepting my fate but ever since this incident, I have felt shame and embarrassment and a sense of surrender. I have stopped trying to consciously avoid further drama. The evitable is nothing if not inevitable. I figure, if I make it to year 70, I will be nothing but one giant pile of scar tissue. My life has been nothing if not a crash up derby. Here comes another ding, another rip, another pock. Who knows what might happen next?

            I think that most people would agree, life can often be a burden to bear. I often feel like Job but without all that righteousness. All the pain, all the agony, all the confusion collects up like rainwater would. Something always comes along to refresh the pond so we need not linger in all the puddles. We linger anyway. Throughout those lives we accumulate memories, we accumulate people and we accumulate scars. The scars we bear, they define us, they demonstrate, they mark the moment. Sometimes they are easy to hide and at others times there is nothing we can do but try to cover them up. I am not even sure that they mean something in the greater scheme of it all. I suppose that sometimes a knife is just a knife, flying glass simply that as well. As I look over myself and see all the damage that living has done to my body, I am compelled to say I am used to it. Not even the site of my blood bothers me anymore. I am used to this continuing cycle, going through life one chunk at a time. I half expect that these events will continue. They always have. They keep coming and I keep making a place for them. I collect comic books, Marvin the Martian memorabilia and, apparently, wounds.     

Photo

Paris, Ontario

Winter 2017