It takes everything I’ve got to keep the surge of tears in
my lungs as the pig’s bawls ricochet off every corrugated metal wall. A
sensory weapon more than a cry for help, the swine scream boils my heart. How
am I letting this creature suffer so?
The weapon of untruth: this pig’s temper tantrum is all for
a little injection behind the earhandle. A shot of vitamins for mas grande.
Keep those porky pants on til December, Babe.
The real death rattle stared me in the face today, and my
camera stared right back. In three moments of the faultiest ceremony, three
weres became weren’ts. In just one simple instant animal became corpse with
nothing more than a few twitches of flicked blood and the tightened face
muscles of four foreigners. Now meat, now flesh, now object: no longer a
problem – and that is the problem. How can a transition so monumental in my
life, be, nothing? And my only answer is the clicking of the shutter,
documenting the would-be intimacy of life-loss and the desecration of their
corporeal temple.
I feel no rush of emotion as I did when two boys tore at
each other’s shirts in fury, or when the dog tumbled in the air, yanked upwards
by its hind leg. Minute events brimming with feeling. But the somber murder
photo shoot’s lack is what plunged a slow burning in my stomach.
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