Saturday, October 11, 2014


My hands are rough, cut and scratched all over.  Different parts ache from different injuries; hammer pounds and plier pinches, rock scrapes and briar stings, so that when I pick up a pen to write these pages or hold a phone for any time, my fingers tingle with the crawling sleep of some neuralgia and things I touch scratch audibly as they pass over my brittle surface.  The finest dirt has settled into the deepening lines in my fingers, filling the now visible prints with iron dark dust.  I never realized my fingerprints extended so far, almost to my palms.

It is late afternoon as I write this and the air smells different now, warm and lush, different from the cold, fern-green morning at 5:00AM and different again from last night when I returned from Manhattan, when it teased of a thunder crack – ionized and clear, as if blown through eons of angel hair, filtering out all but the hint of pure creation.


Blogger Ralph said...

I'm glad to see that you're posting again. There is so much drivel online, so it's a pleasure and a relief to read your blog.

It's always hard to overcome inertia and to get out there repairing fences or chopping wood or whatever, but when I do, the rhythm of work carries me along on a tide of sensation and sometimes, as expressed here, insight and perception. And it's true about fingerprints.

Since I know you're a voracious reader, let me just add that I recommend Knausgård's "My Struggle." I was skeptical at first, and he can be exasperating, but I cannot stop reading his 3,600-page opus.

12:44 PM  
Blogger Berlinbound said...

Thanks Ralph. I'll put it on my list. And I'm writing - something different, an experiment - and I am slowly, haltingly, finishing the book. We will see where it goes.

6:54 AM  

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