l i f e
a poet, a tailor, and me
contributions
christopher@30seconds.org
They all three used to hang snug in the mirror above my old Empire dresser. Two are black and white, one is color. I didn't take any of them. Seperate they mean what they appear, but together they are me, my essence. My being.
The dust and asbestos from my old house still clings to these pictures and I take care not to scratch them. They are in order
- Wliiam Carlos Williams, circa 1955 b&w
- Unknown Italian Tailior's Apprentice, circa 1953 b&w
- Me in front of a P-47D Thunderbolt, circa 1994 color
Why do these pictures illustrate me? Let me count the damn ways...
William Carlos Williams, a poet. He wrote most of his work while walking to a dead end job in New Jersy. He looks hopeful. Dignified in the face of adversity. There's a family in the background, but their passing doesn't register on his face anymore. And, some of you will like this, there is one helluva monolith just over his left shoulder. Surrounded by street lights, a monument to something, somewhere. And lastly, the bushes are in bloom but need a trim like all the things that grow out of control in our lives.
Unknown Italian Tailior's Apprentice. Young. Innocent but worn. Happy, yet, disturbed about something. On the precipice of losing the very innocence the photograph has forever captured. Dark eyes, dark hair, black dress. Winter. Leafless trees and a thin straw hat hiding her hands. That's very important, her hands are hidden from view. I imagine those hands worn from work, honest work. Fumbling with the bakelite buttons on her dress. Wiping the sweat from her heavy dark eyebrows and pinning her hair in place with a cold metal clip. She will grow into a woman who will be strong and never complain no matter what the cost or pain. And in those eyes, a determination that I can only duplicate by looking in the mirror for long minutes at the pupil, the iris, the veins, and deep, deep color.
Me in front of a P-47D Thunderbolt. This one goes way, way down to the very depths of my being. Far into the soul. It cuts to the depth of the relationship between myself and my father. It rings with urgency the dream of the cold, frigid pilot falling helplessly out of formation. Yes, I'm still haunted. The planes propellers are taller than I am but it is only a single engine single seat fighter. The largest of the war. A bright red cowling covers the Wright radial engine, four of which delivered the atomic bomb, though they were attached to a much larger more famous aircraft, the Enola Gay. I'm comfortable, hands in pockets. Hidden hands. Smiling. Not a rairity in photos of myself, but rare for it to be real, and this one is most certainly real. Still, I'm wearing the evil eye. A tailsman my father gave me. He would wear it when he was younger and mad at my aunt. He gave it to me when we where cleaning out his parents house. Said he really wanted me to have it. It's blue glass with a yellow eye. Looks Egyptian, but it comes from Turkey. I know you've seen them. Everyone has seen them. They're supposed to be good luck, ward off evil. I don't know why he and I wear it when we have anger to display. But there I was, wearing the evil eye on a bright, sunny, day. Not a cloud in the sky. I've got on my old hat. I don't have the hat anymore. When I left my last job I nailed it to the back door where it hung for eight months until the owners of the building finally repainted and someone tore it down. It's green with a brown leather bill. Greasy as hell from five years of kitchen work. I look fit. Surprising. I don't look hungover. The key to this picture is the plane and me. Nothing else. And there isn't much else in the photo. Just me and the plane...
These photos all came spilling out of a book I told you. A book called More Shapes Than One. And I guess to a degree that all rings true in life and the photos that hold it together. So there you go. Three photos. By themselves nothing. Together...
goodnight 1.23.98
