Tuesday, September 14th,
10:30pm, 2016, Somewhere in the West of Ireland.
Dear Reader,
The words blurred on the yellow
page like an anchor sinking through to the other side. – A page drawn blank
again; The weight of the anchor leaving no trace behind, oblivious to its
destruction.
But then I saw the
words again, damp now, wavering in my eyes. My skin cried out cold, but no one
could hear it; blaring out of tune with my leaping heart. I jumped in my seat
to straighten my posture; eyes poking around the room to make sure I hadn’t
frightened anyone with the noisy weight of these words.
But to my surprise, no
gaze met mine, and no one had heard the weight of these words through my eyes.
My professor’s voice played on melodically in French wonderings and I listened
intently, although helplessly, in the same way that no one can help but to
listen to a breaking news story. They listen, despite it coating their
throat in a sour glaze,
leaving them frozen, speechless.
Still, I listened, my eyes darting
from one side of the classroom to the other, as a silent way of asking if anyone
else felt as upset as I did, given the weight of these words.
These words –
‘Un
mort en direct.’
Our French Professor
had just told us about Omayra, a Colombian girl who was killed in a volcanic
eruption in 1985. She was stuck under the debris of her house and trapped in
water for three days before her struggle ended.
I jotted down these points through
French on the yellow page, mindlessly; Ink flowing quickly so
that I wouldn’t miss a thing the French Professor said. But I stopped short at
‘Un
mort en direct.’
A
live death.
Omayra’s death had been documented by a journalist, and
shared with the world.
‘Un
mort en direct.’
The words cast disturbed tumbles in my eyes.
I had underestimated
the weight of words.
-
These heavy words and words alike that were all
connected with the subject of our class: ‘The Power of Images.’
There was one specific image from the novel
-
A photograph of a grief-stricken man emerging from
the wreckage of a bomb on the Paris Metro, with an unconscious woman in his
arms.
The book tells the story of how this image changes the lives of
these two people; How their privacy is stolen; How their fame is unwanted.
The most memorable
thing about this book for me so far, is the weight of Helene Gestern’s
words; How her descriptions of injuries and feelings leave me with stuffy lungs,
feeling literally breathless. So even though this French class is labelled ‘The
Power of Images’, it always directs me to think of ‘The Weight of Words’,
because with a powerful image, comes some heavy words.
It got me thinking
about Roslyn, my novel’s child protagonist, because she also experiences this
‘power of images’ newsflash-type phenomenon that we see so often today in the
media. And sure, it’s a cliché to relate to the book you study in school at age
eleven because Narnia seems like a lovely place to go for tea with Mr. Tumnus
the fawn, but this time, in my case, my mind connects the book I’ve personally
written, with the book I’m studying in University right now as a twenty-one
year old.
In my book, Roslyn
finds herself at Singapore airport amidst the chaos of the terrible news
breaking out that a plane flying from Indonesia to Singapore, has crashed.
Roslyn kneels in prayer,
unaware that this image will circulate the world, making
everyone oo and aww at the angel-child in the
airport.
Now, I imagine comment
sections on Facebook. I imagine people commenting on Roslyn, and calling her
‘the nation’s sweetheart’.
Her privacy’s been stolen.
She doesn’t like the attention, and she doesn’t like the weight
of these words.
My heart seizes up at the thought.
Now, I hope, that I
will always be precise in weighing my words. No poem will be left limp and
frail when its initial intention was to pack a punch. No short story will be
riddled with heavy words to the point of over-describing.
I’ll weigh my words
with caution; perhaps throwing out the recipe entirely. I’ll tread carefully
through the power of images, and I’ll refrain from clicking ‘like’ on social
media if ever I feel like a hero’s privacy has been shattered.
Maybe they can’t stand the weight of the word.
Maybe they never wanted to be a hero.
Naturally, others will
click ‘like’, and of course they are entitled to that freedom.
What if, for a fleeting second, I am among them?
-
Drawn in by the ‘town’s local hero’ or the ‘nation’s
sweetheart’, as Roslyn is often called.
I must weigh my words,
because recipes can’t be reversed and my words won’t disappear
once they’ve been planted on a screen.
I hope, dear reader,
to have you right beside me in this careful consideration.
Even though two tons weigh
the same, stones hurt more than feathers,
so weigh them wisely,
and check them twice.
Ciao,
Madame Mayreed x
