You recognize a body by its blemishes:
moles and birthmarks, scars, tattoos, oddly formed
earlobes.
The present examination must be managed
in darkness, and by touch alone. That should suffice.
Starting at the head, then, there is a small hairless
scar on the left eyebrow; the bridge of the nose flat;
crowded lower teeth, and a chipped upper canine
(the lips part to let my fingers explore); a mole
on the right side of the neck.
So, what have we got here? An initial assertion: you recognise a body by its blemishes. There is an immediate sense of unease. Why do you need to recognise the body? The implication is that the body is a corpse, perhaps one mutilated in a violent death so that identification is a major concern. There is an unemotional tone, perhaps a professional approach, a checklist of confirmatory indications – moles, birthmarks, scars, tattoos that can be checked against records.
But this supposed coroner is working under poor conditions – in darkness. So this examination is not taking place in the dazzling sterility and modernity of a medical facility with every observation verbalized and recorded. In fact there is pitch blackness – touch alone must and should suffice. So we begin at the head, each idiosyncratic detail noted with the assiduity if not the compassion of a lover.
Then a shock – the lips part to accommodate the tactual exploration. This is no dead body that is being examined. What is going on?
For me, already there is body horror – I have an uneasy relationship with my corporeal being. I dislike its very physicality, its regular demands for sustenance, evacuation, cleansing, exercise and sleep. A disgusting alien leers back from mirrors and it is he, not me, that confronts friends, family and strangers alike; a coarse imposter. And the goo he exudes and leaves me to deal with – unspeakable hot viscous piss or a tepid stream of pale water, a splatter of loose motion or loathsome gross tumescent lumps of shit, greasy smears of viscid semen, the slick sebum of sweat, the scouring strings of acidic vomit, the glistening oysters of hawked sputum, lurid globules of greenish snot, the oozing pus, the oily rancid smegma and seeping boils of putrid coagulate. And the abominable odours! All soggily bagged up in a loose unpleasant membrane of stale moist skin. If this is God’s image, he can keep it. The stomach-turning reality of being human.
There is a second implication. That perfection in the body leads to a uniform aesthetic. A truism that the deplorable world of marketing demonstrates amply with its superposable supermodels, sleek identikit sport coupes and sad scrabbling for brand identity.
And what of the examinees compliance? Is this a pleasurable experience? That sense of unease suggests that something else is taking place here. But as yet we know not what.
