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In the far away country of Texas there is a blog where the writing is so unbelievably good that I cannot possibly tell you how good it is. It dazzles and shines with the raw forces that underly our minds and souls. It is honest, with an honesty that brings stinging tears to dry eyes in an instant, or takes one on a magic carpet ride through cloudscapes and dreamscapes beyond imagining. I can only encourage you to hasten there, to read at some length, and if you come away feeling like I do, to pass the word, link to her blog, become an addict. The blog is named Dreams, Deliriums, and Other Mind Talk. The link here leads to a piece that Nevine posted the other day about a scar on the back of a woman, opening up a universe of possible reflections about scars and how people live with them, their impact on people's lives.
(Des cicatrices)
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I left Nevine a brief comment letting her know her piece had deeply touched me, and that I might say something further about the subject elsewhere. The following piece is posted as an echo from across the valley to Nevine's beautifully gripping piece of writing about scars.
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. .Scars From the Past
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A couple of weeks ago
I was back in my home town
For the first time in years
I had stopped in the public library
Just to see if it still looked
The way it had when as a kid
I'd checked out piles of books
For the summer reading contests
I was looking around
Just taking things in
So many memories were there
Of stories from way back when
The world was still
A shining, glistening place
And dreams were ripe on the vine
When I noticed a woman
Somewhat younger than I
Sitting at a reading table
Ensconced in a book
She had quite a vivid scar
Running across her chin
Visible from the other side of the room
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The expression,
"It all came flooding back"
Is a cliché
But that is exactly what happened
It all came flooding back :
A winter afternoon
I must have been about eleven or twelve
It had snowed heavily
Through the previous night
That morning we woke up
Eagerly listening to the radio
Announcing the list of schools closed
Jubilation when ours was named
A day of freedom from teachers and books
A day to get out and play
In the pure white gleaming snow
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We made snow angels
Lying on our backs
Spreading our arms and legs
Raising arms over our heads
To make the angel wings
Then sitting up and trying to get back up
Without marring the angel's form
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Dragging sleds and behind us
Our old wooden sleds with steel runners
Which had to be waxed with paraffin
We headed up to the best hill in the village
By the college campus
A good long steep stretch
That went down to the where
The football field flattened out
There were lots of other kids there already
But more than enough space for a few more
So we careened down the hill on our sleds
Again and again gleefully playfully
My older brother and I
On one run we ran into each other
Tumbling in the snow down the hill
Laughing, running back up to the top
And decided to run into some other kids
For laughs, the dumb things kids do for fun
We were all so thickly bundled up
In heavy winter coats and scarves
Mittens or gloves and boots
Hoods or knit wool caps on juvenile heads
We thought no harm could come of it
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I waited for someone to start down the hill
And then ran with my sled and leapt on
Taking a diagonal path to intersect the other
Without fail the laws of gravity and physics
Obeyed their orders
Two descending objects
Accelerating down the snowy slope
Ran into each other in a muffled collision
One boy rolling away still laughing with success
One girl tumbling in a heap
Then sitting up with hands to face
And a mournful wail broke loose
Which turned to a high pitched cry
I could never forget
And blood, blood welled up
Between her fingers
Blood ran down and dripped in the white snow
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Somehow in the sliding crash of two sleds
One had bucked up and twisted, overturning
An iron runner slashing
Right across a young girl's chin
As the two rolled to a stop on the slope
She was crying and bleeding
I remember saying to my brother
"We better carry her back up to the top"
And he said something like
"What do we need to carry her for
She didn't break her legs"
I yelled at him out of fear
And rising panic
"Well she isn't very well
Going to walk back up by herself is she"
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The problem resolved itself
When her mother came running
Down the hill
Having seen that something was amiss
Her eyes wide when she saw
Her daughter bleeding and crying there
Still holding her sliced open chin
We mumbled it was an accident
Her mother ignored us
In her hurry to help her daughter
Who was obviously going to need
Medical attention
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We went back home slowly
Sheepishly crestfallen beaten
It wasn't supposed to have happened like that
Never had I meant to hurt someone
I remember the fear
Feeling terrified that I would be punished
For having done that terrible thing
Whether I'd meant to or not
We didn't tell my parents
Gradually in the passing days
The fear went away
And the school year went on
Nothing happened
As she was younger than I
She wasn't in my class
I never saw her again
I never knew her name
The terror of that day
The horror of the blood
Leaking out through clasped fingers
The fear in her eyes
And that cry of hurt and shock
All of that gradually faded away
And I never thought of her again
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Until the other day
When I saw the woman
With a vivid scar
Across her chin
Sitting in the library reading
I hesitated there a long moment
Wondering whether I should
Try to speak to her
To ask if it were she
From that winter afternoon
Long ago
But finally I dared not
I could well be wrong
Scars can be had in so many ways
Car accidents
Ice skating
Whipping posts
Self inflicted
Assorted forms
Of modern world violence
None are pleasant to remember
Or speak of
I did not wish
To impose on her
My own sentimental projection
Of past guilt
Dark and infinite guilt
No words of mine
Could ever make her scar disappear
Could give her back
Her pristine childhood chin
Nor her years of gazing in mirrors
Wondering what it might have been
To live an unscarred life
I walked away
Back out of the library
Drove away from the town
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But I think if I ever saw her again
I would want to tell her
I am sorry . . .
That I understand . . .
For I too am deeply scarred
Perhaps as a result
Of poetic justice
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