Yesterday, I was gleefully sanding down the edges of my simple woodshop project of the weekend (backing Masonite boards with frames for my triptych), moving my hands quickly as if to simulate an expertise that I surely do not have. Suddenly, my hands fly apart, and before it's actually registered with my brain, my eyes are staring at a sliver of wood peeking from my cuticle. It appears to be very small, and begins to moisten and become translucent as it settles into my finger. I'm picking at it with my fingernails, trying to act the part of tweezers and tug it out, but it doesn't want to budge. I think first that I might just be picking at flesh, but wiggling it causes a sharp, hard sensation; I then imagine that the monitor on duty in the shop reading his paper might be able to help, but he hasn't looked up yet, and it looks small enough to get out with some perseverence.
I am starting to panic, and it's trickling blood; I wonder if I could just leave it there till I get back to the room and ask my roommate for eyebrow tweezers, but I still have quite a bit to finish up. I wonder why it's hurting more and sort of flail my arm to make it stop. Finally, the adrenalin and frustration peak, I shut my eyes, and take a final, swift, wild pull at the nub, and then stare in wonder at the inch-long splinter that emerges as my finger begins to throb and pump blood. What a terrible relief.
I can hardly see the entry wound now, but just beyond my cuticle, the finger is sore for about 3/4 of an inch.
On New Year's Eve, I made some bad choices involving gin, rum, whiskey, vodka, and champagne (although, in retrospect, I think the champagne doesn't count), and ended up with my head in a bucket, letting the tears flow along with the other internal juices. They say alcohol makes one more truthful, and there I was in Taiwan with a few near-strangers (including two saints) telling them, emphatically, without reserve and with the greatest humility the most plain truth of all: "I miss him. I miss him so much."
It's the special kind of drunk saved for New Year's Eve. A total uncorking of the last repressed feelings, a total disregard for responsibility or decorum or precedent or consequence as you panic in that moment between last year and new year. All of that residue lodged numbly in your being is removed; it's catharsis, or at least, it's a giant vomitous mess, unleashed. And boy, it's the kind of drunk that makes you really glad you're leaving the country later that day and not going back for a long time.
I am currently attempting to create a special concentration involving elements of Engineering, Chemistry/Physics, Visual & Environmental Studies (Studio Art), and History of Art & Architecture. I know, it takes multiple breaths for me to say it, but I like to call it "A Comprehensive Study of Materials." I hope it will take me to Venice this summer, Paris next spring, and to a dozen labs, firms, and studios where I can work hard with my hands and forget what I'm feeling in my heart.
