Today the navel-gazery is pretty much literal. Mine is a fascinating bellybutton.
Something appears to be wrong with my tummy, which in itself is not very interesting. Odds are I’m dealing with a deep muscle pull, but all sorts of horrible things could be going on. Horrible things go on in the tummy, which makes diagnosis an adventure. Maybe my intestines are protruding through my abdominal wall; maybe my aorta has burst. These things happen in the tummy, which can be the site of many horrible things.
What I find fascinating today, however, is that perceptual acuity that tends to accompany illness and disorder. Whenever I get sick or feel unwell, I take inventory: have I experienced the symptoms in question before? in this combination? to this degree? If the answers are affirmative, such questions can allay anxieties. When the responses are less certain, however, selective attention kicks in. I could probably chronicle for you every sensation that tickled my torso today in minute detail: the spasm that twitched through my lower back when I twisted out of bed, the rumble in my tummy when I finished up in the gym before eating breakfast, the number and strength of the vague throbbings that accompany the illness or injury that currently concerns me. I’m dialed in to those sensations today, as I was yesterday and the day before. I try to be a reasonable man when it comes to such matters, and nothing suggests that I am in desperate need of medical care. My penchant for erring on the side of caution, however, compels me to keep tabs on my tummy, if only so I’ll have something to tell the EMTs when they wheel me to the hospital.
In good sooth, I do not enjoy this; I would make a pretty poor hypochondriac. What really galls me, however, is that I normally cannot achieve this kind of acuity in my everyday outward observations. Despite my habitual self-absorption, I recognize that most of the really interesting stuff goes on in the world outside. People and objects fascinate me, and when I write I generally begin with a vivid image in my head, one fleshed out in as much detail as I can manage. At the gym, for example, there are two exceedingly bendy women who do all sorts of exotic exercises I do not fully understand. I try to watch them without being terribly intrusive or creepy, though I must admit that my interest in them as persons is limited. I appreciate the complexity of their ritual movements–one’s uncanny ability to balance on the bosu ball, the other’s extensive stretching regimen (which seemingly cannot relieve a persistent crick in her neck)–and while I’m sure they’re both lovely people, the image is what freights my imagination and invites me to write. Tellingly, my idea of their faces is not very precise, though I could probably identify one by the rondure of her shoulders and the other by the width of her hamstrings at the point of insertion. Those images are sharp. That depth of detail, however, is nothing compared to today’s fixation on my own addled abdomen. It is only when my mind is dialed in to this compulsive attentiveness that I realize how shallow my perceptions generally are.
I’m currently working on something like a portrait poem, one that attempts to use the kind of information I customarily cull to build a bridge from observation to understanding. With every line I write, however, I cannot help but feel I’m falling short of the image–not just its obvious contours, but its shadows, its depths, its textures. I don’t even want to think about the other sensory registers; the visual cues alone seem unbelievably shallow. I think I can find a way to pay homage to my subject, after a fashion, but today I’m keenly aware of what that portrait must be missing.
I’m philosophical enough to believe that the attempt itself is worthwhile, that if I were to find some reason to write about the women from the gym (for example), I could do so creditably, in a way that does them honor. At times, however, I feel less like a painter than a caricature artist, hoping that a few prominent contours will be enough to suggest all that I fall short of.
