i dont know where to begin , says the same old man who walked out with me yesterday , not speaking to me directly , but gazing at a waving strand of ivy wending its way toward the screen of the open window behind me ; he speaks his words quickly and his voice makes a happy gravelly sound ; he twiddles his thick fingers together in front of him , not exactly as though he is nervous , but conveying excited bewilderment ; the wrinkles around his knuckles are like the dried slices that i have seen across the surface of certain arizona salt playas .