Once when I was being photographed on a street corner, a man with a brown spider tattoo covering half his face, leaned out his truck window and offered to take me home. As far as approaches to getting a date go, this ranks up there as one of the worst. He kept yelling at me until the light turned green and cars honking behind him moved him along. Mr. Spider-Face Pants had an awful menacing aura, one that said I have a lot of bodies in my crawl space. I did not dilly dally on the street after that encounter. Taking and posing for pictures requires nerves of steel, and barring that, a few strong martinis. After all, you never know what's going to work and furthermore what will be revealed -- too much, not enough, something lovely or tragic or miserable.
Now I wonder about the tattoo, about where he got the design, and who had the talent and patience to fulfill his wish. I didn't know if he ever wanted to wash it off and start over, to be himself again without the vivid markings. But perhaps that's the point -- to let people know who you are without saying a word. Such is the power of a photograph. It tells people something that you cannot. We carry them around in our wallets, frame them in our homes. We put them on refrigerator doors pinned up by magnets from places we've been and may never go again, those tiny reminders of times that were joyous at least in memory.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Most dolls belong to little girls and live in houses. But this one was different. She lived in the woods. She didn't belong to anyone, but she had more friends than she could count." Dare Wright
Drinking documentary suggestion: What Remains
Benedictions and Maledictions