TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown. 

It struck me recently how much technology has changed our relationships with our bodies. There are devices that tell us how well (or poorly) we slept the night before, how many steps we took in a given day, what our heart rate is when we work out. We have access to more data about our physical selves than ever, and we don’t even need to go to the doctor to get that data.

We also have access to our own image more than ever before. I know that technology has made me more aware of my body and my face, because I see myself so often: on Zoom, on Facetime, in selfies. 

When I teach in a classroom, I’m looking at the students. When I give a talk in an auditorium or theater, I see the audience. My gaze is outward. But when I teach a workshop or speak virtually, I see myself doing it. I’m aware of myself as a physical being. That awareness adds another layer to the experience—a layer I’m relieved to shed when my events are in-person.

It's funny to think that we don’t know what people see when they look at us. Not really. The only way we ever see ourselves is in reverse: a mirror image. The people in our lives literally see something different when they look at us than what we see in the mirror. The people in our lives see us differently than we see ourselves. If we’re lucky, they look at us with love, and deep interest, and tenderness, and those feelings color the image. I’m sure I see a different kind of beauty in the people I love than they see in themselves. Maybe part of loving others is helping them see that beauty.

Today’s poem considers how we regard ourselves—our physical selves. It’s a poem I love, a poem that I see a lot of beauty in.

Parts of a Body House
by Erika Meitner

I’ve never received an eviction notice.
These days, I shake uncontrollably every time
I think of the tactile universe. It’s been

eons since my hands were peripatetic.
Back then my body was a remote spaceship
fueled by lust and network technology.

In bed in first light, I turned towards my own
visage in the reverse setting on my phone
camera, arrows flipped. Outside now, I take

photos of everything insignificant: ragweed,
roadside forsythia, dandelion clocks over-
running a drainage ditch—ghost seed.

This year, brood x cicadas are emerging
in swarm or celebration, depending on 
whom gets asked: entomologist or civilian.

On subways, I think of walking. When I walk,
I think of trains. Radiant city, your shine
whips through me with machinic consistency.

I talk to my body like it’s a house on the market.
When my mouth opens, there are sucking parts.
This is not a plague of locusts with their

pharoah pharoah call. This is our promised
summer. Someone has waived the inspection.
Someone has made an offer far above asking.

“Parts of a Body House” by Erika Meitner. Used by permission of the poet.