At 12.57am

>> Tuesday, 15 April 2008

Unknown, Lifehouse

Last night I was inspired to do an entry: A Story About Win Zee. And this morning I deleted all the photos I took cuz the idea is just too lame.

Told you.

Meet my beloved pebbles:

Peekaboo, I see you!

Last night I was reading Fiona Shaw's The Picture She Took and these paragraphs struck me:
For a time, while she was in Belgium, Jude had taken photographs of hands. Her own, Kate's, Peter's, other soldiers', trying to capture them in a gesture or going about some habitual movement, peeling potatoes, lighting cigarettes, playing cards or rolling bandages, their precision, their delicacy. But there had been one young soldier brought in, she could still see him come through the doorway, and he'd changed that. It as winter and very cold. The soldiers were suffering badly from chilblains, their hands and feet swollen and painful, and some had frost bite, so that at first she thought that was this man's trouble. He stepped forward, eyes wide, shocked, and held his gloved hands out to Jude, like an offering, and if she hadn't caught him, he would have fallen to the ground.

The soldier behind him told her that it was the left one that had been hit, but that the young fellow wouldn't look at it even.

'He's too frightened,' he said.

Jude got the man on to a stretcher and gave him a slug of brandy. Still he hadn't spoken a word. As gently as she could, she began to cut away the woollen glove, and for a short moment she thought the injuries might be superficial. Then she saw that the darkness of the glove was made of as much of blood as of the dark blue wool. As the hand was uncovered,it became a mess of bone and blood. Two fingers were severed, the knuckle bones sharp white even in the cellar's poor light, and the flesh on the hand was macerated, raw. Woollen fibres were tangled into the mess of it all, so deeply threaded into the flesh, it was almost as though God had made it that way. The doctor would be here later, but she knew there was nothing he could do with this.

She was exhausted by the time she'd finished and though he was conscious, staring at the ceiling, still the soldier hadn't flinched, still he hadn't spoken.

'It's serious,' she said, 'but you should make a good recovery. I've cleaned it up pretty well. We'll get you back to the hospital tomorrow, and you'll be strong again before yo know it.' And because he wouldn't speak and because she was so tired, she said, 'You're not left-handed, I hope?' and still he didn't speak, but when Jude saw that he was crying, she was sorry for her facetiousness and she went and found the one who'd brought him in.

'He's not left-handed, is he?' she said to the soldier, who looked up at her over his mug of soup, and he shook his head.

'He's a pianist,' he said.
What struck me wasn't the severity of his wound but that sentence. He's a pianist. It was the intense fear of unable to play the piano again.

I still don't understand, why I would be afraid of unable to play the piano instead of not having a left hand.

Haha, out of a sudden I miss WK :)

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