(no subject)
After piano lessons each afternoon, I play records on two old turntables. I enjoy the contrast of vinyl to the perfection of heavy keys. I play for thirty minutes, or so, then take off my headphones and turn off the tables. I always turn them off.
After playing records, I eat lunch: one apple, one roast beef sandwich, and water to drink. I always eat and drink these things. Usually, I return to my room.
Yesterday, I returned to my room after a wonderful lunch to find a severed blue hand slowly revolving on one of the tables. On the other table, an index card. The hand trickles orange blood, not too much, about as much liquid as a gas station coffee stirrer can hold. As the table rotates, the blood follows the grooves of the disc to the edge, forming an orange spiral until the blood slips through the edge of the rotating portion of the table, wrapping around the inner-workings of the belt-driven device.
Carefully and deliberately, the hand points an infinite number of directions. The index card reads: I am lost. I am a hand. I need help. Follow these instructions, please: Never touch me. Take me close to the sky. Wrap any long object in aluminum foil. You must not hurt the foil. Take me close to the sky at night.
I am on the roof of my apartment, and this part of the roof is almost flat, and this is the only part. A severed blue hand rests on an ironing board. A tall lamp is folded with aluminum foil. The aluminum foil is from England. The ironing board is from Thailand. The cell phone is from Japan, and has just begun to ring.
This is the year Ghandi. I sent a friend to the wrong place in the universe. You are now involved. Return the hand to the record players. Turn off all the lights. Imagine the following: You are sailing on a wooden ship, atop a mast at night in the middle of the sea. The air is cool and wet. Everyone on the ship sleeps, and everyone is hungry, except you. From atop the mast, you will leap into the water. The fall will taste like ice and salted crackers. You will never land, and this is your destiny. Now, open your eyes.
The hand is gone. The lamp is slowly burning. The roof is completely flat in all directions. My hands are orange and taste like saltwater. You may never touch a piano until the end of time.
After playing records, I eat lunch: one apple, one roast beef sandwich, and water to drink. I always eat and drink these things. Usually, I return to my room.
Yesterday, I returned to my room after a wonderful lunch to find a severed blue hand slowly revolving on one of the tables. On the other table, an index card. The hand trickles orange blood, not too much, about as much liquid as a gas station coffee stirrer can hold. As the table rotates, the blood follows the grooves of the disc to the edge, forming an orange spiral until the blood slips through the edge of the rotating portion of the table, wrapping around the inner-workings of the belt-driven device.
Carefully and deliberately, the hand points an infinite number of directions. The index card reads: I am lost. I am a hand. I need help. Follow these instructions, please: Never touch me. Take me close to the sky. Wrap any long object in aluminum foil. You must not hurt the foil. Take me close to the sky at night.
I am on the roof of my apartment, and this part of the roof is almost flat, and this is the only part. A severed blue hand rests on an ironing board. A tall lamp is folded with aluminum foil. The aluminum foil is from England. The ironing board is from Thailand. The cell phone is from Japan, and has just begun to ring.
This is the year Ghandi. I sent a friend to the wrong place in the universe. You are now involved. Return the hand to the record players. Turn off all the lights. Imagine the following: You are sailing on a wooden ship, atop a mast at night in the middle of the sea. The air is cool and wet. Everyone on the ship sleeps, and everyone is hungry, except you. From atop the mast, you will leap into the water. The fall will taste like ice and salted crackers. You will never land, and this is your destiny. Now, open your eyes.
The hand is gone. The lamp is slowly burning. The roof is completely flat in all directions. My hands are orange and taste like saltwater. You may never touch a piano until the end of time.