Version 1.0 | Hands.
My grandmother passed away when I was eleven. I don’t remember much about her, except that during her dying days, she spent it at home so my father could take care of her. I remember her hair, very long and white, strands that almost looked as if they would crack under the comb she’d use to brush it. And I could stare for hours at her hands. Not kidding. They were a mystery to me. Wrinkled, soft skin, the flesh under her forearms loose. “It’s like someone sculpted you”. I was sitting on her bed, legs crossed, pretending to be an Indian. She smiled at me.
Version 1.1 | The sculptor and me.
I’ve always been disappointed because I’ve never been able to draw hands. I myself have non-dramatic hands with short fingers, unlike my sister’s long fingers. Boy’s hands, people would say. Maybe it’s because I’m not a sculptor. Or maybe the sculptor just wasn’t too fond of me, I suppose. Oh well.
Version 1.2 | Basquiat’s Hands.
I wonder if Basquiat had nice hands? But then I wouldn’t care. Any hand that can create art as wonderfully as he did is bound to be beautiful anyway. Strange things always happens when emotions are involved.
Version 1.3 | Returns.
After the funeral everyone came over. They were all in black but everyone had stopped crying. I sat myself on the couch. Then, I saw my Grandmother. Standing just across the room from us, next to the salad dish. My brother, who was sitting beside me, was looking at her too. Then, she was gone. Did you see? I whispered to my brother, who was 7 then. He said no, but his eyes were opened wide.
Version 1.4 | Ambush chosen the follow star powder keg.
Watched beautiful short films by Ang Lee, Wong Kar Wai, John Frankenheimer, Guy Ritchie and Alejandro González Iñárritu. Just six minutes of classical music and car chases. Ang Lee’s, at least. (I just overheard someone here say: “The story is that Boom found the pigeon.” I’ve been waiting all day to hear something like that. My day is complete. At last.
