You see here the latest irony in a life full of ironies – my copy of In Cold Blood, stained with my own cold blood.
This macabre keepsake resulted from another irony – I walked to church this past Sunday morning reading In Cold Blood. Indeed, I’ve spent the whole week walking and reading Truman Capote’s fascinating classic, which does have religious resonance. That sunny Sunday stands out for one reason: my interest grew so strong, I didn’t pay enough attention to the raving man in my path until he started throwing punches.
Thus the bloodstains.
Needless to say, that attack sent me not to my church, but the emergency room. Attribute that to a fluke.
You see, my right eyelid suffered a quarter-inch cut. It most likely came from a fist or the raver’s thrown beverage can or its impact with my glasses, which thrust those silver wireframes not just off my face, but possibly into it. Whatever the case, that incision proved my only wound.
While it bled a whole lot at first – those pics would charm a Halloween makeup artist – my urgent care clinic could have handled that cut with ease had it happened just a quarter-inch higher. And that, my friends, was pretty much it. I came away with three stitches, a black eye, bruised appendages, a torn jacket, and a vivid reminder of how the blind, naked aggression Capote wrote of may rise up at any time.
I could list all sorts of lessons from this, or give you a play-by-play analysis of the event itself. I actually wrote that first, as most undoubtedly guessed, and I’ve contemplated the results ever since. But you know the score. Stay vigilant, admit your limitations, protect those you love… ah, the wisdom and platitudes could flow ever on. But they all come down to one thing.
Life is short, so make yours count. For most such keepsakes prove far worse than mine.
OK, that's two things. Maybe even three. Whatever. You know what I mean.