Most of my life, my hands have looked like the chubby, pudgy hands of a child. Neither bones nor tendons nor veins were visible beneath their plump skin. I cannot recall precisely when the appearance of my hands began to change; I know only that the changes began to take hold sometime in my sixties. Finally, after decades, the back of my palms began to lose their chunky look. Veins became increasingly visible. I could see tendons that, previously, had been hidden beneath fleshy layers of skin and muscle. I remember being pleased when my hands started to lose their unnaturally youthful appearance. But the transformation from a child’s hands to the clutches of an old man took place surprisingly fast. Too fast. Almost overnight, I saw myself change from a maturing teenager to a fossilizing, post-middle-aged, man. Somehow, I missed young adulthood and middle-age; even the encroachment of the golden years crept by unnoticed. Suddenly, my hands reveal that the greater part of my lifetime has surreptitiously inched past. Electricity can be stored and retrieved; no battery yet exists to store time. Time is a precious commodity lost forever if not transformed into accomplishment. The appearance of one’s hands hint at the story of one’s life, but only deep self-reflection can divulge whether the tale is one of achievement or decay.
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A few years ago, I wrote a short story that was included in an anthology of the work of writers with a connection to Corpus Christi, Texas. If not for the fact that the publisher (William Mays) was so accommodating, I would not have bothered to submit my story. Mays occasionally posts links to my story (and others) on his Facebook page. Here is a link to my story, On Open Water, for anyone who wants to know about the kind of things I used to write—before I turned my attention to empty words.
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Today’s news stories could have been written a week ago. Or a year ago. Or sometime shortly after the Civil War. Even the most exciting news of late is dull; it carves slabs of disinterest into thin slices of detachment. There are no calories in detachment—only massive doses of rancid sugar and enough carbohydrates to fill all the oceans of Earth. Rancid sugar, by the way, is calorie-free. Eating it is like swallowing fish hooks in the hope of having halibut for dinner. Sometimes, irrationality is the only salvation.
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I have never owned a shotgun, nor a 9mm pistol. While I am admitting to a poverty of weapons, I do not and have not owned a nuclear weapon, either. But I have owned automobiles and knives and I have had ready access to stainless steel wire suitable for use as a garrote. All of those instruments can be used to commit murder and for self-defense. The same is true for a shovel. And, when employed carefully, a stick of dynamite. The world is extraordinarily complex. So are we all.
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When shafts of sunlight shine on pine trees, clumps of pine needles sometimes are illuminated so that they appear to be still-shots of lime-green explosions. My perception of that scene would be far easier to share if I could paint what I see, rather than try and fail to describe it.
