April 1, 2010

In past columns, I’ve found fuel in the tragedies of the world. These are the creases in aging skin, caked with dirt you can’t get out, stained with the blood from some long-ago skinned knee. A fossil, found on a walk to forever. These I turn into fodder for my existential gluttony, taking each incident – alien and familiar, autonomous and involved, smoother than bone and rougher than shark skin, and turning them over. Pale olive hands with long fingers exploring the crevices, mounds, openings, imperfections, perfections, edges and insides, brilliance and eloquence, of each.