Combat Camera

Combat Camera by A.J. Somerset     2010 – Biblioasis

The choice: the synopsis hinted at introspection and PTSD – so that comment just opens up more wonderment of WHY did I choose this book? Canadian author, first novel.

The reader in me: Zane, a photojournalist dealing with a broken life after years of covering various war-torn countries, now takes pictures for a video porn business in Toronto. His career grew from his ability to find art in the shadow, light, and composition of dead bodies and destruction. He separates emotion from everything surrounding him. A young woman, Melissa, who needs help leaving the stripper lifestyle becomes his ticket back to a legitimate life and a literary road trip ensues.

The writer in me: I loved how dialogue was thrown in with simple abandon. The author also allowed Zane to show his introspection as the light and images reminded him of his past. Even though one is taught that writing must avoid techniques that will only confuse the reader… I was excited this story thrived in the stressful tangle of thoughts. Maybe I can play with the stuff the writer in me has been told NOT to do.

The critic in me: This book had a darkness and frank mind-play that I really enjoyed. The humour was perfect. I found the whole story believable and loved how the main character Zane only saw the play of light on a subject rather than the real people in front of him.

This Book inspired me:

     Happy birthday to me. In the mirror is my face, 55 years old. Bright blue eyes still smile back, the lips and chin displaying the unfortunate scar -still easy for me to ignore. Details are faded just like many of the events in my life. Forgotten, or ignored, or I'm remaining unaware like that continual arm swiping an air-cushioned palm across the top of my head. I need a bobblehead doll that could do just that. Perfect birthday present.

     My husband told me years ago, that the nape of my neck was his favourite part of my body. Now, the red farmer's tan on my neck gets irritated by miniscule moments in the sun, so this year's solution is to keep it covered. At all times. Void the sun. Hidden completely. So now it is just pink with stark white edges, the skin dry and puckered on each side of the creased ditches where my neck folds. Probably best to remember the beauty under colourful scarves and turtlenecks. My skin is not soft, smooth, supple, energized or revitalized. No. It is now rough and podgy like drying paper maché.

      The skin of the elderly. I am seeing more of that when I look in the mirror. There is less elasticity left when you pinch or poke it. I am drawn to touch my face and I watch as the cheek dents softly, then hesitates before resuming its natural shape after taking my finger away. With age a lot of things take longer to resume or click into gear. What I'm seeing is familiar, but no longer seems to belong to me. In the few seconds it takes, the skin becomes that of my father's on the day he died at the age of 91. I cant say there was much of a difference in his looks in the few days leading up to his death – compared to when it is final and I struggle with an appropriate response to the doctor's news. Dad's frail frame was always thin so the extra wasting has not been too hard on his appearance. His face is pale tissue paper.   The skin stretched tight over spidery blue veins dense enough I want to pick at and remove like strands of cat fur on a white sweater. He lies flat, mouth drawn wide open (pretty well the same flat-out couch position my father has always held napping, watching TV or trying to read the newspaper). 

     Another memory flash – this one fro the funeral service. The funeral home had difficulty with his lips. The crazy-glue needed to hold them closed made his mouth look unnatural, as if a poorly sewn seam was coming undone in spots. It may have been easier and more familiar to have left the mouth in full snore mode. 

     While his face is taut, there is a minor floppiness to the skin at the sides of his head and neck, gravity pulling the excess wrinkles down in a pool of flesh. Translucent. The doctor has closed Dad's eyes before coming to find me. Still, I can sense the baby blue, so intense, right through the waxen lids. Dad looks as if he is just sleeping. He looks exactly the way I left him an hour ago. Just an hour ago I had softly squeezed his hand and kissed him on the forehead. 

     “Dad, I love you. I'm just going to go down the hall for a bit. I am going to go and sleep. You can go to sleep too.”

     And he did.