Incision Inventory:
The most recent one is a tiny crater carved out of my left ring finger. Last night I had Punch Drunk Love blaring from my computer on the kitchen counter while I made dinner, and as I was peeling potatoes for a mash, a loud noise in the film yanked my glance away from the spuds and punctuated a sharp sting. Of note: blood pooling on the cutting board while Jeremy Blake’s abstractions floated in and out of focus.
Next is a slightly smaller poke, almost perfectly round, situated smack in the middle of the webbing between my left index and middle fingers. It was a few days ago while sitting in the front seat of the upstairs section on the 295 bus. Someone had left an empty energy drink can on the ground, and between stops it was rolling back and forth in front of my toes trying to get my attention. It did, so I reached into my backpack to grab a pencil. I keep all of them in a tightly-packed internal pocket and make sure they’re oriented points-down for these situations, but somehow one of them had flipped in transit and decided to bite me when I plunged my digits into its nest.
Third-freshest was a tick-sized blister on my right middle finger that stealthily popped while I was vigorously jamming power chords in my room one night last week. The song in question was MJ Lenderman’s “SUV,” (I prefer the version from his November ‘23 live album), an absolute banger that has enchanted my millions of imaginary fans and kept my neighbors awake regularly over the past couple of weeks.
Flip my right hand over and we meet crime scene number four, another skin balloon that burst on a toes-to-bar skill training day at Crossfit. I purchased some apathetically-reviewed, Amazon-recommended grips to prevent this very thing from happening, but alas, the gear/chalk powder/correct technique precautions still did not prevent my moisturized epidermis from surrendering to the weight of my body.
Same goes for one in the exact same spot on the other hand that happened just days earlier.
Rounding out this handsome group of red reminders is a shooting scar arcing across the dorsal plane of my left wrist. It happened last month on a wet afternoon: I had just hopped off the bus in Shepherd’s Bush to receive treatment for an ear infection at my GP’s office, my backpack’s handle clenched in one claw like a briefcase, when I approached the clinic’s entryway and attempted to hoist the bag onto my shoulders. In doing so, I somehow grated my wrist against the building’s stucco wall. Checking in with the receptionist, I told her I was there for an ear appointment but also wanted to request treatment for the open wound that was dripping on her linoleum.