I am a Library

Close up black and white photograph of my face

"When I look at my face in the mirror, there's an old woman staring back at me."
— from Surabaya Johnny, by Bertolt Brecht & Kurt Weill

I'm staying at a hotel in Sheffield for a couple of days while I teach a CSM class over two eight-hour sessions, going on until 1o o'clock at night. It is too difficult to teach from home at the moment, with a house in restoration chaos and two loud, playful children released from the bondage of school, and joyfully bouncing off the walls. Here there is peace. Here also, in the bathroom, is one of those "truth" mirrors, the kind that magnify your face and expose your flaws. I had plenty of time this morning to gaze at myself as I attempted to shave with an electric razor which seems to take an eternity, but it was all I had with me.

The Bertolt Brecht lyric, quoted above, came to mind, except in my case there was an old man staring back at me. Who are you, and how did you get here, I wondered. My face these days is all lines, creases, and scars. I can sigh and turn away, or I can stare closer, and remember. I can recreate the expressions that caused the lines to form as they have, which is some mix of concentration, confusion, scowling, smoking and laughter, and I can remember the story that each scar has to tell.

Face

The small scar by my left eye: a sharp stone thrown by a friend on an old bomb site in 1960's Greenwich. We had holed up, behind broken walls, rival factions on each side of the brick-laden wasteland, each bombarding the other with stones. I don't remember why. Must there be a reason? For children, usually not. We just do stuff. We throw things. There was no animosity in this activity, only game. There was a lot of blood, and I ran home to Mama, who whisked me off to the local hospital. (As an aside, there was once this thing known as "local hospital". Hospitals were small, and everywhere. You could usually walk to one, as indeed, car-less, we did.) St John's it was, one of two within a half-mile radius. I got my first stitches, and proudly displayed them at school the next day. That it was the side of my eye, and not my eye, was fortunate. My friend David Woods, in a later stone-throwing incident was not so lucky. He lost his two front teeth—adult teeth too. Living dangerously. No one remembers who threw that particular stone. It may have been me.

The lines on the right side of my chin:1 the result of an early-twenties drunken fracas in a Sydney art gallery, where an offended artist smashed his wine glass in my face. Again, much blood. I remember lying in the A&E while a beautiful doctor sewed up my face, and expressed surprise, and interest, that this event happened in an art gallery rather than on the street, or in a bar. Seizing the opportunity I asked her out on a date, to which she graciously agreed. There's always a silver lining, I thought, as she tenderly tailored me whole, now with the scent of romance hanging in the air between us.

That deep indentation between my eyes: the leftover damage from my periorbital cellulitis, which landed me in hospital over Christmas and New Year in 2017, the result of excessive drugging and general disregard for my physical and metal health. It almost killed me, but ultimately probably saved my life. For several months prior I was, once again, "slowly committing suicide, but...had lost the power to do anything about it."2

The dropped left eyebrow: nerve damage from when, carrying a table down a narrow, curved flight of stairs while drunk, I struck my temple, causing the entire left side of my forehead to freeze up, looking like a botched botox job. I can no longer raise my left eyebrow. It is fixed and immobile. It was the weirdest experience. I could feel the nerves ceasing to operate as it slowly crept across my forehead, numbing me and rendering movement impossible. It was unnerving, and I didn't know if it would stop. It did stop, half way across, but has never repaired. I was always somewhat lop-sided; this defect simply exaggerates it.

The crows feet by my eyes: I first noticed these decorative ridges when I was touring northern Morocco on the local transport: a 50cc moped. Screwing my face up against the wind and the low winter sun, the skin hidden by the squint stayed white while the rest of my face turned dark brown. It looked quite comical, and I remember thinking that at twenty-seven I was too young to have such exaggerated lines. They never really went away after that. The kinder people in my life refer to them as laugh-lines.

My earring: I got my left ear pierced when I was fourteen. At that time it was considered gay to have your right ear pierced. I have no idea where such traditions stem from, but there it was: left ear only, or else suffer the taunts of homophobic schoolboys. It didn't hurt, and it's not really damage, so perhaps doesn't belong here. But is is a mark on my body, and it reminds me of how hard it was at fourteen to just be or become oneself. A pierced ear set me aside from the boring kids, but it never made me cool. I was just a gawky, rebel kid with a hole in my ear. At sixteen, after leaving school I got my right ear pierced too. I figured two ears would just create ambiguity, and I liked that. The right piercing later became infected and closed up. I took that as a sign. Not gay.

The micro lines extending from my lips: probably only visible if I blow you a kiss, but undoubtably there. These are smoker's lines, caused by thirty years of tobacco inhalation, in the hope that the nicotine would somehow give me peace of mind, or heal what ailed me. It had the illusion of doing so, but only for a minute or two, and then the craving would begin again. Such is the nature of addiction. I like these lines least. I'd even say, they suck.

Body

Later in the morning, standing naked in front of the full length mirror, I could see/feel, the full range of scars, defects and limitations. My whole body is a library, I thought. One day I'll transcribe the stories; for now here's a brief preview. Long gash on my shin from jumping in a river where barbed wire lurked below the surface, aged eleven. Surgical scar on my left arm with a pin in the elbow, after falling from a table, aged fifteen, while attempting to demolish a ceiling in a restaurant that had burnt down, possibly for insurance reasons. Breadknife scar on my left index finger, aged seventeen. Jutting out collarbone from a bicycle crash, following some illegal activity I was keen to make my escape from. Bent little finger from a football injury—I like to remember it as saving a difficult penalty, but that might be fantasy. Drop foot and nerve damage in my left leg from sitting hunched up in front of a computer for too many years. Sometimes I trip up unexpectedly. Faded rose tattoo on my right shoulder, which brings to mind my first wife, Joanne, deceased now, and also the street prostitute who sat with me on the kerbside in Kings Cross, Sydney, where we shared a bottle of whisky the night before the tattoo appointment. She wisely counselled me not to get Joanne's name under the rose, as planned. You'll regret it, she said. Look at me, regrets all over my body. Good advice. That marriage, mostly one of convenience, lasted less than a year.

And so on, stories (or regrets) all over the body. Then I got dressed, and merged back into regular society.

1 Lower face not shown. I like the picture better this way.
2 The quote is from NA literature; you can read my periorbital cellulitis story in an earlier newsletter, In Sickness and in Health

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July News

This may have been the wettest July in memory (my memory that is, which like my physical body is also rough around the edges). Still, statistics aside, it was indeed very, very wet. The school year ended on 21st July. We headed to the Sheffield Tramlines festival the same evening, to tramp through mud, eat dodgy food and enjoy the live music—for me and Asrai, most especially Bloc Party, where she sat on my shoulders punching the air, yelling and screaming with delight, as I danced as best I could with the extra imbalance. Zoë and Rayna backed off to explore the sideshows. The next day we headed to Cumbria for a few days. More rain, more mud, and frayed tempers. Family life is never smooth, but really, why should it be—and would it be better if it were? I somehow doubt it. There is no passion without temper, no love without madness.

In our islands, the rain seems set to continue into August, with the occasional sunny day predicted, but generally cool weather throughout. Our plant life loves it; we humans rest our hopes on an "Indian Summer", sunshine in September and maybe even October. Or not. Sylvia Plath says it well.

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time. — The Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962

So see you again at the latter end of the odd, uneven time.
Tobias
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1st August 2023, 06.00 Reply to this newsletter