(Sorry about sharing yet another stupid ad with its text removed; I'm just fascinated by the way that the images end up askew, plus the showy colors, the dashed border, the choice of objects and the result of their juxtaposition – it's like a compound new alien word.)
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
as it says in "Song of Myself" (§48). My first thought was to begin this entry by quoting all the places in the so-called historical books of the Bible where the narration labels each king as having governed either goodly or evilly. As if every one's rule is strictly one way or the other. There was no point that I wanted to make by extracting those verses; I just thought it would be nice to put such ducks in a row. But when looking through the text, I could only locate the 'bad' kings. Wherever the 'good' ones were, they sidestepped my skimming. So I decided instead to copy the wise words of Whitman.
(None of the above has anything to do with what follows.)
In my previous entry I reported how I nearly severed the fingers off my hand while dismantling a rusty metal workbench. How else have I injured myself recently? Let me count the ways. In my pocket is a handwritten note serving as a self-reminder, for the next time I blog, to mention my misfortunes; it reads:
- pliers pinching pinkie
- insect repellent in eye
- washing face one-handedly
That first phrase refers to last night, when we were getting ready to screen our movie: I was trying to prepare refreshments, but the vodka bottle's cap was stuck so tight that not even Hercules could untwist it; therefore I got out the toolbox: I used pliers to grip the bottle's top and squeezed with all my might, but the tool slipped and clamped down onto my little finger, which happens to be on the same hand as the workbench wounds from yesterday. So now my pinkie has permanent blackish red blotches on the print of its face commemorating this accomplishment.
Then later we rode our bikes to the park, and I held up my injured hand to try very carefully to apply mosquito repellent to the parts of it that are not yet lacerated, and in doing so I somehow ended up spraying the poisonous mist directly into my eye. So it stung for a moment, and I spent the rest of the day expecting to go blind and lose control of my nervous system. (I've never really been in control of my nervous system though.)
So all these mishaps left me with only one good hand. And it's my non-dominant hand, so I'm a clumsy awkward bumbling toddler again, because this hand has a mind of its own—it's more of a mitten than an octopus, by which I mean that it's inarticulate—thus a regular daily task like washing my face takes forever, and when I'm finished there is soap all over my shirt.