Since most of my time is tied up with activities surrounding my broken foot, here goes another exploration or two of the inside of the body.
I gained some new information about x-rays during my most recent set–what you see isn’t exactly what you’ve got. Although I did have good bone growth, my doctor said we weren’t really seeing my bone growth of THAT day. We were looking at what my fifth metatarsal looked like two weeks prior to the x-rays I had just had in the office that day.
Lately, many things are news to me and this was certainly one. The bone growth basically happens in two stages. Calcification is the second stage of the growth and the x-ray does pick the result of that process. The first stage of growth can’t be captured in x-ray–it can’t be SEEN yet.
I couldn’t help but feel the analogy to writing poems, to the difference between the first flush of the feeling or idea or perception and then what gets written–the language filling in the picture. And the time lag until such growth can be visible.
I don’t know whether it is scary or comforting to so often see the correspondence between life and art. But, then, on any given day I can feel as if I just crawled up out of a murky pond, or I can feel
In myself the fledging’s first successful attempts to land on a phone line.
More x-rays have been my lot. And the revelation of a weird rainbow of bruise-ish colirs when my foot was unwrapped last week. Good thing mummies aren’t in the room for their own unspooling.
Out in my workroom, under the coffee table, I have a stack of old x-rays, most of them taken over the years to track the various bad disks that have been huggermuggering me for a long time.
In the pile are some nice MRIs taken during the same time period. I have carried various combinations of these images around with me to neurosurgeons appointments and pain management specialists. They are the illustrations to a long standing narrative, a storyboard of back pain in its unfolding chapters.
Since the advent of digital imaging, there’s nothing to carry home anymore. The “interiors” travel without the body they represent, zipping on their wireless way without me. I doubt there will be anything of my present set of shots to add to my hoard.
One day when I pulled the x-rays to sort them and have the appropriate ones ready to take wiith me, I was surprised to see among them x-rays of my dog Zabi’s hips and Primo’s chest x-rays, the ones that showed the lung cancer that eventually ended his life. I have tried to write about the discovery of that mix of my body with their bodies in that medium, but I’ve not been totally successful yet.
Maybe it’s time to try again. Re-imagine the “surround” of the circumstances and find the poem that will explain how stunning it was to see all of us in a bonepile together.