How would you describe yourself to someone?
I wouldn’t. Why should I? I might give them a self-portrait, or a painting of me, by my friend Moo. Or I might give them a poem or a book of poems or short stories. That way they could see me for themselves or read about me and make a decision about me that way.
“Ah, would some power the giftie gie us, to see our selves as others see us.” Robbie Burns, if I remember correctly. For those who don’t follow the Scottish accent – the giftie gie us = give us the gift. I don’t have that gift. What I see in the mirror when I shave is not the same as what people see when they look at me with their own eyes or, with their own ears and minds when they read my words or hear me read.
Meanwhile – I invite you to read this. There’s a little bit of me in there somewhere. If you can find it before it floats away down the plug-hole.
Self-Portrait
I smell. I whiff. I gloriously stink.
My arms, my feet, my crotch, reek with beauty.
This is me. I am still alive. I’m rank.
The time has come, the Walrus said, to take
a shower. I strip. I weigh. I obey.
Hot water streams. Bathroom steams up. I draw
faces on grey glass, smiling, glum. Soft soap
works its miracle turning Japanese
nylon into a rough body cloth that
rubs and cajoles all putrid dirt away.
Butterfly from its chrysalis, I step
from the shower, sniff with caution, and stench
no more. I am clean. I no longer pong.
My body has been taken over by
perfumes no longer mine. Who am I now?
I am no more myself. I am no more
my own gorgeous underarm muscular
ripeness. I have left my odor circling
in the soap suds and drifting down the drain.
What a pain. It will take me a week or
more to start smelling like myself again.