(no subject)
We’re peer-reviewing essays for one of my classes and this morning I’ve been working through “Reflections on the Raison d’Être and Ethical Deadlock in the Humanities” - an excellent paper, in fact. Anyway, the art historian of an author somehow managed to work the example of voodoo into his discussion and said that to understand the power of art (and I use the word “art” in its loosest sense), we should attempt to stab out the eyes in a photograph of a loved one. I glanced up to see a photo of Luc and me, and envisioned using the tip of my automatic pencil to substantially alter his face.
I freaked at the very thought of it. In fact, it almost made me physically sick. I pictured eye-less Luc, his arm still around my shoulders as we gazed at my brother-cum-photographer - and the image recalled to me Thomas Harris’s novel Red Dragon. Killian and I watched the movie last month, and I won’t soon forget the shards of mirrors in the dead women’s eyes. Dead, yet alive, yet not themselves: people rendered into effigies, reduced to something less than human merely by adjusting the contents of their eye sockets. If I hadn’t been chained to the damned computer for the rest of the afternoon attempting to finish my own essay, I’d have immediately biked over to see Luc. Childish, I know, but the need to reassure myself that he was still among the living almost overpowered me.
His blood and flesh both comfort me. When I wrap my arms around his torso, I know that I haven’t yet forsaken the real world. And in the clasp of hands we might discover the power of a kiss…but Operation No-Name is not yet that far along.
I freaked at the very thought of it. In fact, it almost made me physically sick. I pictured eye-less Luc, his arm still around my shoulders as we gazed at my brother-cum-photographer - and the image recalled to me Thomas Harris’s novel Red Dragon. Killian and I watched the movie last month, and I won’t soon forget the shards of mirrors in the dead women’s eyes. Dead, yet alive, yet not themselves: people rendered into effigies, reduced to something less than human merely by adjusting the contents of their eye sockets. If I hadn’t been chained to the damned computer for the rest of the afternoon attempting to finish my own essay, I’d have immediately biked over to see Luc. Childish, I know, but the need to reassure myself that he was still among the living almost overpowered me.
His blood and flesh both comfort me. When I wrap my arms around his torso, I know that I haven’t yet forsaken the real world. And in the clasp of hands we might discover the power of a kiss…but Operation No-Name is not yet that far along.