Yesterday morning, a mystery bug knocked me flat. The sudden onset and the unpleasantness of the symptoms pointed to food poisoning. However, once my temperature hit 102 degrees and I found myself sleeping 30 out of 36 hours, speculation turned to something viral.
Around 9:00pm, I roused myself from my foul nest and wobbled downstairs. The parents were up watching television in the living room. Needing some human company, I curled up in an easy chair while my kind mother delievered toast and a popsicle.
Ken Burns' documentary of the Civil War was on PBS. I drifted in and out of awareness as various narrators spoke about the first battle of Manassas. This happens to be one of the few conflicts of that war with which I am familiar, having made it a regular habit to hike the Manassas battlefield with historic guide in hand. The pace of the documentary is artfully created. With nothing more than old photographs and a few minutes of Shelby Foote to engage the eye, the drama builds and the viewer is drawn in.
After the show ended, I lolled around whimpering as my parents flipped through channels. They landed on a crime drama involving a murder-suicide that turned out to be a double-homicide. Formulaic stuff. I've seen hundreds of these before. They hold no appeal for me. However, I could not bring myself to return to my rank cave upstairs, so I stayed put and let the show roll on out over me.
This is the most TV I've watched in a year. My eyes are not accustomed to seeing the world arranged in such a way. The women are all insanely skinny, perfectly coiffed, and wearing impractical clothes. Everyone is young. The workplaces are sterile, the dialogue stilted, the jokes delivered at a jittery pace. The characters all seem to have a lot of money. Okay, so these observations are nothing new. What struck me was how bizarre it appeared. These eyes have watched a lot of visual media over the decades, and they've never before registered the oddness with this impact.
Avoiding the television universe for such a significant chunk of time is like existing on another planet. Where I live, people's bodies come in a wide array of shapes, and conversations tumble along an unpredictable landscape. I had not considered this outcome of my fast. As the real inhabits my attention, the unreal beomes odd, surreal, and even alien. For years, I had heard (usually older) people say that actresses and models looked off to them. Almost insectile. "Give that girl a cheeseburger!"
For the first time last night, I had the same experience. My reaction to the creature in the Victoria's Secret ad was fascinated revulsion, which is a far cry from the desire or covetousness I have spent my life experiencing. Now, my Zumba mornings are spent in the company of real bodies moving with grace (or stiffness, or awkwardness, or joy). Following the dance is the locker room, where those same bodies peel down to flesh and limp around, showering and oiling up. Several times a week, I am surrounded by naked human skin. Even the fittest among us are made of age and dimples, sag and muscle, scar and wobble.
Having Ken Burns provide a juxtaposition to the staccato, commercial-laden and almost cartoonish crime drama is a good thing. It serves as a reminder of the argument people often make in defense of visual media. "It's just a tool. It can be used in so many ways." Yep, it can. And just like any activity - writing or cooking or talking with a friend - it can be done superficially or mindfully. We can take shortcuts or we can go the long way around. Our art is an extension of our lives, after all. Do we grab for the fleeting pleasure? Or do we attend to crafting the real?
This morning, I am coming up from the delirium of my illness. Outside, a hazy, April sun hangs low over my neighborhood. In another lifetime, a sick day would have found me curled up on the sofa with club soda and the remote. Today, however, I will read an essay by Barbara Kingsolver. I will stretch my creaking limbs long in the bed and draw healing breath down into my tissues. I will ease myself down to the back deck and listen for the chickadee who is sure to arrive here soon, if only I keep my ears tuned, if only I invite him in.
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