Fillet of a fenny snake,
– William Shakespeare
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble
Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 1.
Before I had even thought about conceiving her, she had already appropriated my teeth. The dentist made a plaster cast of them, used it to make my mouth guard, then asked: “Would you like to keep your cast?”
“What are you usually doing with?”
“Garbage, but it’s complicated because it’s a problematic waste.”
“Ok, I’ll keep it and smile to myself.”
I’m not a hoarder, but I dislike anything not recyclable or reusable. So the cast sneaked into a box among other arts & crafts ingredients.
Years later, Becca claimed my surgical staples. How to decline the nurse kindly asking: “Would you like to keep your staples?”
“What!?”
“Like… in a jar?!”
“People are doing that?”
Flash back to the hospital, where all packed, I stopped for some paperwork before getting out. It’s routine. And includes prescriptions, one for the removal of the surgical staples, in ten days.
Not scared about the operation, just curious, I asked: “What happens if I don’t get them removed? After all, they’re made from some fancy steel.”
The nurse was hesitating, “They’re not designed to stay in; I could guarantee an infection.”
“There have to be people wearing surgical staple-looking piercings. I can’t be the first one thinking about that.”
“Yeah, but piercing jewelry is designed differently, and they’re made from a different composition.”
The explanation made sense, so I added the appointment date to my Calendar.
That’s how, ten days later, I left the clinic with a clear pill container in which the nurse carefully poured a solution over the stirring staples. Not sure if it was alcohol, I delayed opening it to avoid the eventual smell built up in it. It was going to stay around, on a shelf with other stuff waiting to be organized.
The idea of Becca came together one other year later. On another shelf, there was a styrofoam head with the trivial role of keeping my red pearls in place. The one and only Christmas decoration I use to prettify the table. No tree, but a stream of red pearls flowing between the cutlery and the glasses. Or hang it on the wall from one frame to the other. It’s long enough to be spread on more than two walls and around the windows. They’re a pain because when off duty, the moment I lose grip on them, they’re running away, ruled by some weird physical laws. One year, after the Christmas fuss, and tired of rolling the pearls back around the styrofoam head, I imprisoned them in a jar on the dry food shelf. It adds a little colour and polarity among the rice, pasta, oats, and other ingredients. Helpful to prank friends asking “Is that candy?”
So the head just got useless. Where to place it? What to do with it? Somewhere in the house, there were my teeth and my staples. Descriptive enough for a self-portrait. Forensics uses such pieces to identify victims. Can’t be more unique.
I put them together with an anatomical common sense. I didn’t like the texture, the lightness, and the shape of the head, though, so I covered the styrofoam in weeks of papier-mâché layers.
Then I found it blunt. Too clean and looking like a medical mannequin designed for students: “This is the line of the surgery, you can see it crosses the temporal muscle and creates a temporomandibular joint dysfunction, blah blah.”
It needed some narrative. Went and rummaged in my old treasure shoe box, see if there’s something I could use. Oh, yeah, a snake skin. My alter ego needed a beast, that is. A little longer than the scar, perfect to underline it.
Still obtuse. It needs some volume. Then one cat found the feathers for me and dragged them all over the bedroom. There was no “bad cat” scolding, but a “thank you cat” gratification. Can’t beat the cat’s sense of smell. Even soaped and rinsed, I figure the bird’s smell was imprinted in the feathers forever. Let’s plant three of them in the collateral scars, two in the drain holes, and one in the catheter hole on the neck.
A visiting friend complemented its pureness by mentioning some Japanese artist’s work. I took it needed some colour. Let’s make it a warrior.
And there it is in its final shape. Won’t alter it anymore.
Just call her Becca.
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