Jan 18th, 2011
HANDS
Suspended in midair, they look so ordinary, so unremarkable. This collection of bone, muscle, skin and hair reveals nothing at first glance. Pink, red, black, blue, creamy white, culminating in a mysterious alabaster, then illusive potential. Dozens of muscles and tendons work together in unity to satisfy my desires. They are almost always naked, always moving. I prefer them that way.
The more I stare at them, turning over and over again, the less human they seem. They become very animalistic in appearance. I can’t help but wonder how they evolved. Certainly there was a need for all these wrinkles, these criss-crossing lines, forking, smashing together, converging and then randomly darting off in search of some other goal. As I flex them, they show me their seemingly intelligent design. It is brilliant! They crease as if they know, have always known, what to do. A maze of fissures radiating, then disappearing mysteriously.
The dorsal side reveals comparatively less features, yet equally impressive character. Here lies the ever-growing bone, the knuckles and the hair, accentuating the transition to other, perhaps less useful parts of the body. Blue veins peak out beneath the hair, sprouting like a tree and radiating toward each digit. This is where the stories lie. The time my file slipped off the ski edge and sliced so deeply it just wouldn’t stop bleeding, the burns, the tearing on sharp rock, the frost nip from unrelenting cold and wind. You can still see some of the scars, each of them a greater piece of me; my history, proudly on display when examined closely. They say I should know the back well, but I think they know me better, or reveal me rather.
So sensitive are they; so intimate yet exposed. The nerves culminate so densely, yet secretively under the skin. They climax in the circular peaks of the tips, one of the most sentient parts of the body. Swirls surround the peaks, curvy lines showing features, as on a topographical map, one which I couldn’t possibly begin to decipher. They are proprietary only to me and perhaps known well only to the bacteria that inhabit these peaks and valleys. If I were a tiny creature, scanning this landscape, I might like to climb one of these peaks, perhaps even taking the time to ski it, if the conditions were right of course.
Opposing everything, yet defining these appendages, is a fifth digit. It seems so odd, sticking out in its renegade way, constantly facing the others, thumbing its nose at them as if to say, “I am different and I am proud! I make you whole, I give you your name.” None of them really speak, of course. But they can be loud, when given a voice, when I am excited or giving praise.
They are soft, rough, cold, clammy, hot, dry, hard, round, angular, rude, welcoming, vulgar and loving. I move them in a sweeping motion, articulating not only my joints, but my points. They greet, they compliment, they express my feelings. They can be folded in respect or raised in my defense.
Someone once said that the eyes are the gateway to the soul. I disagree. I think more can be said and done and expressed through these ten slender projections than can ever be accomplished by a blink or a wink or even a tear. Rodin tried, but could not capture the essence of them fully. How could he? Visual expression can be deeply beautiful, but nothing can compare to the feeling I get when my fingers are interlaced with, when my soul is, literally, touching the soul of another.
