I’ve Got You Under My Skin

I’ve Got You Under My Skin
by Lisa Massaciùccoli

“In those places where it happens, the survivors, the people nearby who are injured, sometimes, months later, they develop bumps, for lack of a better term, and it turns out this is caused by small fragments, tiny fragments of the suicide bomber’s body. The bomber is blown to bits, literally bits and pieces, and fragments of flesh and bone come flying outward with such force and velocity that they get wedged, they get trapped in the body of anyone who’s in striking range. Do you believe it? A student is sitting in a café. She survives the attack. Then, months later, they find these little, like, pellets of flesh, human flesh that got driven into the skin. They call this organic shrapnel.”
— from a work by one of the author’s favorite living authors… who, maybe, the reader will ask about… by writing to massaciu AT yahoo.com

While some are still listening to Nelson Riddle’s arrangement of Sinatra’s rendition of the Cole Porter song, I’m addressing the riddle of Afghani babies riddled with bullets — or was it bombs? — on a wedding day… recently. Waking up daily, going to bed nightly with it all lodged under my skin.

In fact, it’s as if the organic shrapnel flew far away from Detonation Central, and embedded — on several occassions — deep within my own flesh, resolute; NONE of those suicide bombers should be dismissed as insane… as if there were nothing instructive to be had from their desperate acts.

The “revolution” that’s called for can only take place if a core group of people are condemned to feel that flesh under their own flesh daily, nightly. Are that fortunate. Cannot turn away from what the powers-that-be are contorting the world with incessantly. Not refuse to, cannot.

Will the fetishization of flesh tones and tunes cover up, marginalize the flesh within my flesh forever? Will Good Americans continue to be Good Germans, tortured and torturing without end? I think that the answer must be yes.

But out of respect to Falling Man (source of the above quote), I submit that we can and must split the sky in two, and let the face of God shine through. With unfathomable, inefficacious (1) compassion.

Even if we relocate overseas to ease… exposing our flesh under olive oiled sun.

Bumps will arise, regardless, I know. Bumps in the road, for one.

[Lisa, again, can be reached at massaciu AT yahoo.com]
Personal Note: People are suffering from stench which arises out of a self-inflicted — not administration-generated — permanent seige, and the stink in the air — with its umbilical cord diverging to both huns and whores critical of them — infiltrates your skin… as long as you remain on these unattractive shores. You can’t enjoy… you can’t HELP… enough… remaining here, well-intentioned but obsolete paradigms notwithstanding. Bump into the author for options, suggestions

Footnote:
(1) What follows is an excerpt from the end of Harold Pinter’s Nobel Lecture http://www.counterpunch.org/pinter12262008.html , addressing what we need to do — for ourselves and others — no matter what, no exceptions. Being effective, resolving to take care of one’s family first, etc. (any consideration, pov) is of absolutely no consequence, cannot ignore this impossible challenge.

“When we look into a mirror we think the image that confronts us is accurate. But move a millimetre and the image changes. We are actually looking at a never-ending range of reflections. But sometimes a writer has to smash the mirror - for it is on the other side of that mirror that the truth stares at us.

I believe that despite the enormous odds which exist, unflinching, unswerving, fierce intellectual determination, as citizens, to define the real truth of our lives and our societies is a crucial obligation which devolves upon us all. It is in fact mandatory.

If such a determination is not embodied in our political vision we have no hope of restoring what is so nearly lost to us - the dignity of man.”

I had Harold Pinter under my skin long before he died. More than ever now for the very reason that too-literal little people are pointing out that he’s buried now. Never.