Scars

Posted on July 29, 2002 in Writing

I have to feel that the tips of my pen cut the paper, like I’m ritually scarring the page. I wouldn’t etch any of this into my face and my hands have irregular scars of their own that I acquired without much ceremony at all. I can find three on my left hand, six on my right. Some of them, like the long one that falls into two parts down print side of my left thumb, are like the knots in Incan courier ropes — I can recite a history for them.¹ Others are mysterious. I can’t remember how I did them. They are the result of scratches that seemed trivial at the time, but proved deeper. There wasn’t a story worth remembering: I banged my hand against something, usually, or cut it while bushwacking. I look at them as they cross my hands whitely. Streaks and little crescents.

Some old journal entries, made with my favorite pen of the time, are like that. The significance of some lines, their context, why I wrote them, etc. is lost to me. All that remains of the spasm that birthed them are a few ungrammatical fragments, scrawled in a hand I can barely make out. Streaks, spots, and sometimes a doodle.

¹My brother was chasing me with a push mower. My mother says that I fell upon the toy I was holding in my hand as I ran away. I remember being cut by the half spiralled blade.