Scarred For Life… Gladli!
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My bodi is like a map. It holds mani scars. Each one stands as a monument of war. A reminder of a small recurring pain. As the years go by, I seem to become an involuntari collector of such items. The stories behind them aren’t quite jolli, neither are the experiences when I recount them. But I possess a saying in the back of my mind by a character I admire, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, “Our scars have the power to remind us that the past was real.” Yes, indeed. I am reminded of that day after day since sometimes I sit and observe my scars. I try to view them as another person would do. I wonder if they seem ugli to an outsider, as a rip to the skin canvas. Or perhaps exciting to the curious eye…
I got my first scar at the age of 5. It was a blow in the face both literalli and metaphoricalli as I learned that I wasn’t invincible and that walking blindli with my hands covering my eyes wasn’t a lasting fantastic superpower. I tripped and fell on the edge of a table and cut my forehead right in the middle. Luckili I don’t remember the pain but I remember my mother hopping from one hospital to another trying to get a doctor to do 10 sutures on a kid while the sirens were blowing and the countri was sinking in a civil war. I brag about this scar today. It is perfectli positioned to act as my third eye and I remind those who see it that they are in the presence of wisdom and enlightenment.
A couple more are the results of some misfortunate surgeries.
I carri one on my neck and I’ve become accustomed to enjoying its prickling pain in cold weather. Regardless of a possible masochistic penchant, I drift into fantasi when I feel the pain. I imagine myself to be Harry Potter, famous for the lightning-shaped (or crescent-shaped in my case) scar that alarms him of evil being nearby; such as an unwelcome ex, or a flamboyant queen who will comment out loud about the extra-gained weight, and the heightened number of white hairs which is additionalli increased by the same queen’s tales of the who and how mani numbers of people she courted the previous night while she missed her boyfriend who is out of town.
One more lies slit across from my heart. And this one by far is the most entertaining when it comes to answering people’s curious questions about its nature. I try to challenge myself when it’s time for explanations:
– “If you think this scar is bad, you should see the other guy.”
– “Lseneh tawil w biya3melleh mashekel” (bmedd lseneh 3al ekhir)*
– “I was born with a failure in my heart, and by the way, my heart is on the right side.”
– “I am a warrior princess, my breastplate was one size too small.”
I have a few more marks on my bodi that I wish to keep for myself. Although I might be willing to share their locations with those holding a debauched sense of discoveri and aspiration.
As creative as I could get with the stories around these scars I will always be faced with the realiti of matters. They did happen, and they happened for a reason. They are visible for everione to see and I am free to hallucinate my own realities about them. The mysteri lies in the scars that are hidden inside the heart; and those appear to have the deepest cuts.
* “I have a big mouth and it gets me into trouble” (I pull my tongue out all the way)
Phoenix is a self-centered and sarcastic soul incarnated, perhaps by accident, in the bodi of a woman. As a writer with a temper, she replaces her "y's with an annoying “i” for aesthetical purposes and lives to crack a joke, at the expense of others. Her paranoid nature makes her sensitive to plants, animals and people. Ironicalli, after making fun of the Meem lesbians for years, she found a warm home there and is now renowned as its veri own emotional pest. She enjoys reading the paper with a hot cup of black tea while nude, more often than not.
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