Gunpower
A well made rifle falls "readily to hand". What does that mean? I don't know, except it describes perfectly what it feels like when you find a good rifle. It just fits. When you hold it, everything is in the right place. It's balanced. Not too heavy, not too light. You don't have to adjust yourself to the rifle. Like a good motorcycle, a good friend, the perfect mate, it just fits.The fore end rests on the my open left palm. Supporting, not grasping - just like a relationship. My right hand firmly but gently around the grip - I don't want to strangle it, just hold it, help it stay where it belongs, where it wants to be. Butt stock snuggles into my right shoulder. Cheek laying softly against the stock. Right pointy finger against the side of the trigger guard, laying softly against the metal.
Look at the groove in the rear sight. Look beyond to the front. Back and forth, until they begin to align. Then out, out, beyond. Find the target. Move the aligned sights as I look. Ah - there it is! Sights roughly over it. Focus on the front sight. Perfectly in the center of the groove, the notch, the cutout made just for this. My pointing finger, knowing its job, finds the safety, tells it to move on to the other side. I take a breath. Finger gently on the trigger, wrapped around it for dear life. Slowly let out some breath, staring for all I'm worth down that front sight, willing the target beyond to move right smack up onto the sight, pulling the trigger gently firmly back, breathing out, pulling the target in, pulling the trigger in - the trigger feels different now, it's ready, pull the target, pull the trigger, there is a noise, an explosion, I don't care, pull the target, pull the trigger, the noise bounces off everything, bombards me, ringing in my ears, my head, I don't care, the gun pushes me on the shoulder, I don't care, pull the target, pull the trigger.
The trigger stops. The gun has stopped pushing. All is quiet. There is a puff of smoke at the target, the last moments of the bullet as bullet, when the molecules of lead and copper and gunpowder residue cease to form a bullet, all working together as a slug to fly through the air, and scatter in random directions like crows from a roadside feast when a wolverine leaps into their midst or a semi blares its air horn as it bears down on them, passes them, roars off into the night.
The trigger springs move my finger forward, ease it back to rest. Hand rotates under the grip, finger tells the safety to move on back over. The target, which I had pulled smack up against the sight, is now far away again. How did it move so far so fast? I trudge out to look. Centered. Nice hit. Nearly perfect. What would it have done to a man's head? A cantaloupe? A woman? A bear? A baby? Who cares? I don't shoot babies, and hopefully will never have to shoot any of the others - except the cantaloupe, which sounds like an interesting idea.
A gun is power. I understand why they want to take them away. Power. Power to the people - right on! ``All power flows from the mouth of a gun'' - or something like that. Mao, I think. The feds understand that - they have plenty of guns. The local politicians understand it - they want the power to flow from their mouths, but they know it flows from the barrels of the guns of their lackeys. The last thing they want is for anyone else to have power, especially when they feel so frail. They're afraid of guns, so they can't have any real power - they have to persuade others, with honeyed lips, or fear (of what?), to wield power for them.
The USAian west was tamed with the power from guns. Midway was wrested from its conquerors with guns. Lincoln's life was stolen with a gun. They aren't ultimate power - they aren't God, or even the power of the atom. But they are power I can control, you can control - and the people who want control of other people don't like that.
I lie down. Left arm on the green cushion. Hand palm up, open on the small cushion on top of the green one. Fore end resting gently in the palm... Ready to try again. Learn to wield the power. Hope I never have to, only choose to in practice. Hope. Power. Life. We'll see.
Last updated: 25 May 1997Copyright 1995 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.
Miles O'Neal, <meo@rru.com> Rte 1, Box 558 / Leander, TX / 78641-9413