My Hands
I’m rather fond of them. I am.
(No, the illustration above is not mine...I’m far too lazy for that)
(No, the illustration above is not mine...I’m far too lazy for that)
I rather like my hands. My fingers are long (mighty useful), though gloves never fit. Their vascularity intrigues. My thumbs are identical to my Father’s (gawd, I can’t even begin to explain what THAT means to me!).
I like my hands. More than I like pretty much anything else ‘bout myself. Oh, sure, I kinda like my hair. It’s silver bright at the temples (the silver proliferating throughout). My hair is fine-spun, just like my Mother’s. It’s soft to the touch...but, what can I say? It’s a vanishing resource.
The rest of me? Well...I’m a wreck.
‘Nuff said.
But I do likes me hands.
Oh, these hands o’ mine surely do cherish their memories! They’ve traipsed across the sweetest flesh. They’ve pulled countless images from too many acid baths to count (a reference to my photographic past). They’ve grasped bits o’ charcoal and brushes galore to fashion beauty as best they could. They’ve grasped sticks of wood to beat out rhythms. They’ve plumbed the most magnificent mysteries (and pleased more than me alone). These hands made art. Made music. Gave pleasure. Worked and bled. They’ve been calloused and rough, soft and sensuous. Yeah, sure, the knuckles are scarred. But not without cause.
These hands have held a lot, grasped for even more. They’ve been left empty. But...I’m rather fond of them, still.
Despite all.
Because of all.
* * *
Because of all.
* * *
posted by Jonas | 4/18/2010 09:21:00 PM
16 Comments:
You are rather attached to them, aren't you!? ;-)
Vascularity intrigues... I know that one... I always seem to notice people's veins. But then, being a nurse, larger veins are easier to work with.
Why, yes, as a matter of fact...I am. And they're verily attached to me.
Oh, Ponita! You'd just love the veins in the crooks of my elbows! They veritably beg for the sweet sting of a needle! Phlebotomists of every stripe have thrilled at the prospect.
I love hands. Are you a Seinfeld fan? Remember the episode where one of Jerry's girlfriends had man hands? I don't care if I have large hands. They reach 11 notes easily on the piano, without the notes being arpeggioed.
I'm glad you appreciate your hands. They probably applaud you for it.
Beautiful post!
As a mastter of fact, Kass, I'm a big Seinfeld fan. I've seen the "man hands" episode more than a few times.
I guess it's fair to say I have "man hands" (but my hands are "prettier" than the ones depicted in that particular show).
Yeppers, I'm a narcissist.
It's good to be pleased with yourself, in whatever way. I like the way you speak about your hands, addressing their many attributes. Good for you. I don't like blood draws in my hands...my veins, at 65, are not very cooperative with venipuncture, sad to say!
Say it ain't so, Ms. RNSANE! It hurts when a needle doesn't find its mark. My sympathies.
By the by, now I'm thinkin' 'bout the Seinfeld episode 'bout George C. as a "hand model."
My hands ain't that pretty...but they're beautiful nonetheless.
Love this post. Hands are fascinating from every aspect. I did a spell as a palmist and got to hold a lot of strangers' hands, very revealing. Little did they know the many ways they gave away their secrets. It's not just lines but so much else - so complicated. People on bad terms with their hands are sad people, often people who do not fit comfortably in the world.
Jonas, those hands will carry you through. There will be more to touch and handle, more to be touched by, before you are through with those hands.
xo
erin
Our hands are but an extension of the heart. All that you have given and experienced comes from a place you must also love, the most important part, the hidden part, until the hands give wings.
The first thing I notice on a man are his hands. I love men's hands. LOVE THEM!
One of the most striking things I remember of my father were his hands. They were big and strong and his love of the outdoors and the fact that he loved to work with his hands were revealed in them. It's funny, but when I meet a man, it is the first thing I tend to notice.
I love to glean the the musing from hands. One of the things that I loved about Dan was his hands. There were the positions of his hands as he played the base violin, the grip on the throttle of the Harley and, of course, the way he touched my skin. Strong, yet sensitive, reflection of hard work with an appreciative caress...I believe a lot is gleaned by a man's hands.
I grew up believiing that soft hands were not "handy". I didn't need hands that could do what my hands could do...they needed to be able to do the "hard" things that completed my own.
Thanks for revealing the hidden qualities that are hidden in your hands...Jonas
Tracing warm veins under the skin, spongy resistance... I have always been fascinated by hands, and arms... I can picture your veins in the antecubital fossae of your arms. They can be felt even when they can't be seen... I've actually located veins in arms by feel alone, and only look when I actually go to insert the needle. I have track marks on my left arm from donating blood... 38 times and counting.
Hands have character... and I agree with everyone else... they tell you volumes about a person, especially if you have the chance to experience their touch.
My hands are scarred by Katie, pinched and scratched, and the sunshine did it's work too. But what I like most about my hands, is how sensitive they are. I love to feel things, touch things. I'm always touching my patients, reminding them they're human still, that they matter.
It fascinates me to learn what subjects fascinate others. I never know in advance. I simply write whatever thought finds form in words. Some thoughts are met with silence. Others resonate.
It has long troubled me, June, that my life lines (both hands) are broken and short. By the way, I'm ambidextrous. I write with my right hand and draw with my left.
I hope you're right, Erin. I would like that. There's much I'd love to touch before I can touch no more.
There's truth in what you say, Annie. Gentle hearts touch gently. Cruel hearts use fists.
Yes, Anna, hands are quite useful (even erotic).
I tend to notice hands, too, Rebecca. Some impress. Some don't. But there's lots more to every human's story than just the hands.
My hands have morphed incredibly over the years. When I was young and labored manually, they were calloused, rough. When I spent my nights in darkrooms (making images), soaking hands in acid baths, they became baby soft. When a gym rat, they became strategically calloused and sinewy. Their basic structure never changed, but they never felt the same for long.
Ah, Ms. Shadowlands, you touched on the special magic that the hands of pianists and masters of stringed instruments exhibit. Hands that make music are wondrous indeed!
Oh, sure, tempt this biologist with talk of antecubital fossae, Ponita. As a biologist, I studied human anatomy, carved cadavers. Anatomical talk still appeals.
Trivial factoid: as a starving student, I used to sell a pint o' blood every two weeks in order to buy groceries. Strange world, that...
My hands are scarred, too, Deb. For reasons less noble than yours. And, yes, the sun has tattooed them in ways I never imagined possible in my youth (moreso my face). Still. The human touch...indispensable.
Wonderfully detailed writing, as always. You have me thinking about all the things my hands have done. (And yes, of course I wrote a poem called Hands once too.) Hands are interesting and the hardest things to draw. I like the reference to the acid baths parlayed against "traipsing across the sweetest flesh." And "knuckles scarred...but not without cause." Beautifully rendered.
Thanks for setting up my Sunday!
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