strange access

the days that bring persons to meet in a moment, the photons that travel from eye to eye: to rod and cone,

these invisible strings that tie us to another's life and breath and bodily fluids

the fact that i was helping an old, wrinkly, skinny prisoner with his leaking colostomy bag - the fact that i needed to palpate the iliac crest (top of pelvis) to position my KUB abdomen film -

how strange are the days when we are tied to anothers life so intimately, yet we are such strangers, and so different yet are we the same, deep down, in our pupils of our eyes, in our intentions and wishes and hopes, are we the same, this man and i

it brings me to wonder, as time stands still - my eyes scan the room, from table to the gun on the policeman's belt; i hear the numbers of the bag - my old man is calling for a new bag, a specific size and model, with a belt this time, a belt and this time it won't leak if it has a belt

and the bowels on the screen from the plane crash; the medical examiner from downstairs is here running his films; remains are only pieces of lives, buckets of colons, shards of legs and toes and skulls - "the whole plane full of 20-somethings, at least there are more body-piercings, more tatoos, at least we can use these to better connect the parts and identify the bodies" he exitedly exclaims, this man with wavy blond hair and such a calm and good nature for someone who solely deals with dead bodies every day. i am sitting here exchanging conversation with someone who has touched the bowels and blood and bones of these crash victims who fell straight down at 70mph and probably passed out from sheer G-force before they hit the ground, and now i see these bones and bowels, bones and bowels, and we are wondering who they belong to

bones and bowels.

how strange that i would see these people's remains, so black and white next to this room with this gentle rough old wrinkled prisoner with his feces leaking into his gown and he says he is so embarrassed and i say it's ok, no one is noticing, we're used to bowels and feces and leaking fluids, we'll get you a new bag real soon and let's get you going your x-ray turned out real well and thank you for being so cooperative, and i think to myself he is nicer than some of the rich people i know who are not even criminals, and i wonder if it is boring to be a cop and be following this nice man around the hospital,

and i go call my 24 year old next patient who is dying of aids and says he has had so many x-rays he must be radioactive and i say thank you and have a good afternoon, because what do you say to someone who is younger and prettier than you who is going to die soon and is already sick, what do you say to these lives, these beautiful creatures of different worlds who are perhaps mixed with yours in unknown ways, and now my eyes have exchanged photons and energy and my nostrils have exchanged gases and my hands have felt the pressure of their skin under my gloves, and he says "isn't this rash pretty, " and smirks in a defeated angry way, and i just breathe and nod and say yes i don't think it is so bad afterall, i think you are looking very good today,

and i tremble on my way home and think about bowels. buckets of bowels, and bones and bowels and buckets

and i go run because it helps me. and i am so thankful for these invisible strings that tie me, and you, to someone else's body,

because in a world of isolated, existential panic, these strings are our salvation,

our road to beauty.