My entire left hand stings.
I showed up at BU this afternoon to model for a class, but the professor (art professors flighty? No!) forgot and took her class to the museum. This is the coolest thing ever about art modeling, because when this happens you get to go home and you still get paid for the whole class.
This is also exactly what I needed today. Three extra hours to decompress, put my poems in order, play lugubrious acoustic guitar, and eat apple pie.
The weather was so amiable, I even got out at the Porter station for the extra walk. As I was crossing the parking lot of the Porter Exchange, my head turned to check out an elderly couple's impeccable cream Mercedes, and I ran directly into a thorn bush.
The bush's nettles detached like quills of a porcupine, and I walked the rest of the way home with a palm that looked like a pincushion held rigidly open so as not to drive any of the nettles further home into my flesh.
After twenty minutes in the bathroom with a tweezer and a little bit of blood, my hand is usable again.
On the one hand, this a humorous observation on my nature, and the nature of human beings in general. Who hasn't stubbed their toe while distracted by something shiny?
However, if you secretly believe life is like a transparently symbolic novel or film (and if you're reading this, you probably don't think that belief is too nuts), and especially when you consider what hands traditionally symbolize to artists of any kind, the message is clear.