The trick here is finding an
edge. The
body being notoriously smooth to the touch. Edges like
hangnail only
splinter into long spears if you peel them back. Edges like
mouth and
nostril only fold over to reveal more skin. Nothing internal is exposed here, and so we are safe from our own
plotting, prodding
hands.
You know when you are small, and you fall down if not harder, then at least more frequently, and your skin turns shades uncharacteristic of
skin, and then you learn. Of your
white blood cells, that are your
warriors, or your
gluttons that eat up the
waste, like tiny slivers of wood, and carry them away.
And your nails grow long. In hopes of finding an edge. In hopes of hanging onto the
intangible by the
incrimental growth of
calcium from the plain surface of hands.
And then you
cut yourself, and see deep into your skin, and the edges, for the moment, go
white from that underneath you would look so
pale, and the edges pull apart like great rolls of paper. And then you learn. That blood contains
iron, turns red because of
oxygen, tastes like
salt. And you learn that it cleans. Flows so hard from your pale edges to take away the
dirt in its torrent.
Time goes on and the
blood clots and you begin to learn about scabs and their ferocity. Their unevenness and their unwillingless to give in to your prying fingernails, your plotting hands.
And one day the
scab gives in, and you learn that underneath is pink like you didn't expect, and smooth in this new way, in this pure way, and your fingernails skid across it, can't grab hold of it, and you learn that this is your body's
protection against finding that edge.
And later on, after you've forgotten if not how you got that
scar, then at least how it healed, much later you learn about
red. About the
color and its difficulty. The pigment comes from
iron-oxide, and it's painstaking to extract. The
navy knows it, painting their ships the second time with
red-death, careful not to breathe too much of the
toxic paint because the second coat will
kill you, as sure as a submarine missle, as sure as the
sea.
It's tedious work. finding a good, true red. It's the longest
wavelength in the
visible spectrum, and therefore
elusive. The
cartographers of major arteries brighter than the topographic
brown and
green, the flat
blue of the lakes and the winding, spreading riverbeds.
It smells different in paint, gives you a different buzz when you
paint your room with a roller. The sailors know it, painting their plimoll lines red, and the bouyancy of the ship will be etched in red and salt, visible from far distances in the grey of the sky and the
greasy sea.
Nature knows it, streaking bellies red, painting nightshade red, making red mean
poison.
Red tastes different. And it's weaker, breaks easily when you sharpen your pencil, lead falling away like over-cooked fish.
Red is important. Called
primary, called
royalty, called
flame,
danger,
anger,
life. And it's more expensive. True red costs. But this you already know.
And you think of true red. The one you own. The one lying under nets of iron and calcium, cages of
bone. Unreachable for lack of an edge. And it's your
record, you see. The physical tally of names, times, dates, numbers, references, preferences, dislikes kept in long ongoing lists by the pounding counting
heartbeat. Your record of still being
alive.
And today you learned about the human
heart. Made of
plastic and
metal this time, by
scientist and
doctor, not god or nature.
And they made an edge, curled their fingers around it and stretched it open. And you would have thought that the body would reject such a
stone cold heart,
kept in motion only by
electrical shocks through the skin. That the colorless metal and
transparent plastic would be incompatible with the deep red of
internal chest.
But today you learned that you can live without that weakness. That true red
muscle. You can't live very long without it, but you can live without it.