Someone sent me this image in 2022. I can’t remember who, where, or how. My memories of 2022 are really spotty: security guards with M5 assault rifles in Mandela Square, Sandton; walking up Rivonia Road to a long-stay AirBnB; getting jumped outside the Cape Town train station on a Thursday afternoon; being stuck overnight, in an overturned long-distance bus, at the bottom of a flooded ravine in Kwa-Zulu Natal. There’s an ER report for Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), and prescriptions for diuretics, anticonvulsants and analgesics in my bag, next to payslips from companies in Johannesburg and Cape Town.The what – of who, what, where and how – is obviously this image and sometime after I’d received it, I put it up on my Facebook page.
So, what is it?It’s a photo of me, playing with my baby – a Kramer bass guitar. Judging from the length of my hair and the lack of noticeable scars on my arms, it was taken sometime before 24-Sep-1989. That would suggest that it was taken at the Irish Club in Hillbrow. Unlicensed, this squash centre moonlit over the weekends, as the notorious centre of Joburg’s heavy metal universe from 1986 – 1989. Hardcore bikers and metalheads, from all over the reef would pay a token 60cent membership fee, to circumvent liquor licence laws, to consume insane amounts of alcohol, vomit in the hallways and headbang to local bands. Proudly, we, Scarion played there during the winter and spring of ’89. Proudly? Oh yeah. Not everyone can put that on their resume. It goes alongside the Matric, or Grade 12 qualification that I was studying for at the time. I was very skilled at time management.But the scars, or lack thereof, are the reason that I posted this image to Facebook, and the reason that I’m reposting here. Sure, the four-fingered bass chord is impressive. It really is. But.Chords come and go. Scars stay.If the body keeps score, then scars are instant replays. Indelibly etched into your body, they can be rescreened for your pleasure, or terror, in high definition, anytime. Want to know what blood smells like? It’s copper, lots of it. Here, breathe deeply. Sucking veins? Yes. Listen, it sounds like a dry mouth desperately trying to suck up water. And that cold? Yeah, you’ve never been that cold, have you? Sorry, no visuals, you couldn’t open your eyes.Replays are free. You can live them at your leisure. When you can’t sleep at night, instead of sheep, why not count your ragged breaths? The really awesome thing about organic replays is that every time you relive them, you recode them for future. No analog decay over time. Recoded with crystalline accuracy they actually embellish with every screening.When I got out of the state hospital, my private doctor asked me if I wanted a referral to a plastic surgeon. I was genuinely confused by his offer. To cover the scars he said, compassionately. I declined. I intended to wear the scars for the rest of my life. I wasn’t sure how long that was going to be, but I certainly wasn’t going to pretend that nothing had happened to me. I wasn’t ashamed.But sometimes I was. Sometimes, someone would ask me about my scars, and I wouldn’t be completely honest when I replied.Chords fade. Scars fade too. But, they never disappear, not completely. When the stitches are out, the scars are an angry purple. Livid, they scream at you when you look at them, and burn when you don’t. After years, they take on the colour of unblemished snow, but like snow in the bright sun, they’re not always easy to look at. You can’t help looking, though. They’re the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning, and the last thing you see when you go to bed at night. If you go to bed. And like snow, they harden into ice, into glaciers, and icebergs, sliding under your skin. Even when you’re not looking at them, you can feel them.I think that if I couldn’t see the scars now, if I could only feel them, I would lose my mind completely. It’s easier.Writing this, looking at the photo, and remembering our band’s name at the time, Scarion, how fucking insane is that?
Learning To Love The Ride 