By Giuseppe Marasco

Disappearing hands, seeming standing in, fit, for work and handedness no longer present, no longer visible. A last evidence, slowly dissolving, of the construction of the material present. This hand, the pocket bubble of time that it may represent, lingers on a little longer like a tracer. Soon about to be eaten up, swallowed by the past and the future. Its own outline a parcel, a territory. Sinking , claimed by the ground, as if interned by quicksand.

Other gloves, extra ripe, disappearing, rich like lightly alcoholized splattered plumberries. Already  gently on the way to rotting.

Are all lost gloves as sad and pathetic as the lost items found after Guernica? All showing the painful  fragility and ignorance of their owners. The truth of the unknowing condition of human nature. That its only ameliorated, or denied, by the distance in time, and the recognition of the antiquated material fashion embodied by the object interrogated.

Between sad and beautiful. Possessing an eerie charm like a lost prosthetic limb. Or simply the spontaneous eruption from the ground manifesting partial limbs. Comprehending only partial their possible use and function. Like all paused action, it remains uncanny in its forever suspension. Incomplete in its trajectory, unable to close the/its circle of action.

Phantom limbs, just how far and how missed by their owners. What thoughts inherent were theirs, when left with that lack, and inability to recover or close the mystery.

Is there a secret to comprehending phantom limbs.

Perhaps we note it because of the Vanishing hand, from contemporary society. Still unknowing of it,  yet we are haunted by it.

Haunted as much by as yet little we have thought on it

Americus eagerly waits to be written in with your thought and contemplations.