Reading, writing, composing....

This is my music: http://youtu.be/lrwdvpOq_WU

This is my writing:

What the Left-hand Was Doing

He is proud of his hand.

It is a good hand, a handsome hand. The fingernails are trim and clean, but you can see a particular roughness around the edges. They are the nails of a labourer. Yes, the hand is strong, and darkened by the sun. It isn't soft or pampered, the true hand of a man. There are even slight calluses on the tips of the fingers; the kind a woman wants to feel caressing her back, her legs, her breasts . . . ah. . . .

There are tufts of hair appropriately placed, revealing the hand's masculinity, but not overly thick, just enough to remind one that they are, indeed, dealing with the male of the species. There is a tattoo centred on the back. "Sweet Jesus", it reads.

"Sweet Jesus," he agrees. Yes, Jesus was sweet; chock full of love, peace, and goodwill. He was brought up that way, the true way of the Torah.

A smile comes to Jack's face as he recalls a story he had once heard.

A great rabbi was asked to explain the Torah while standing on one leg. Now, the purpose of relying on a single leg while expounding on the Great Teaching was simple. One cannot stand that way for too great a length of time without discomfort and, as a result, distraction. Thus, doing such would have been no easy task, or so one would think. The wise rabbi was undaunted.

"Those things that are hateful to you," the rabbi replied, "do not unto other people. The rest is just commentary." And that was it. It was a Jewish concept, really, although Jesus was the one that spread it like the plague.

Jesus was sweet, all right, but there were some fundamental flaws in his way of thinking. No good deed goes unpunished, and it was his special brand of free-love philosophy that got him killed.
Before the spikes were nailed in, he probably had nice hands, too.

Jack slowly turns his hand palm upward. It is cream-coloured; with the gentle creases of a workman etched into it. He traces the lines with his finger.
The love line is long. Therein lay promises of many sleepless nights, sweaty, loose, and easy. The life line, however, is ominously short . . . as well it should be.
For tonight is the night. Twenty-six years of the vanity carried in that hand are finished.

He is proud of his hand.

As he tosses it onto the coffee table in front of him, Jack wonders if Sam was as proud of it when the hand had belonged to him.