congrats (and hands)
If you’re here you’ve found my secret page, where the truly intimate art is relayed. Writing has long been an outlet that I’ve forgotten and returned to over and over, a cottage in the back of my mind where the fire is always lit and the kettle is ever on. It’s also the practice that I’ve been most self conscious of: it’s a bearing of the mind and soul and intelligence all at once, and that latter is something I’ve always felt lacking in. Sharing writing is opening oneself to criticism not just of their technical capabilities and creativity but their intellect, and in that way feel it is the most vulnerable art form of all (I say that now, at 3:09am, with certainty I’ll return to this in an altered mindset and feel altogether differently, but truth is not always stagnant so I’ll speak it as it exists in this moment).
The first piece of prose (or poetry? both? who am I to say - this is where that intellectual uncertainty rears its foul head) I’m choosing to share is related to hands, this whole endeavor prompted by the addendum I’ve added to my thesis project “In the Wake”. I wrote this a number of weeks ago, after a different piece of poetry (that one was certainly poetry), and find that it is a not-too-poor addition to the addendum, though having come before it the influence on said addendum is clear (do you agree that addendum is no longer a word?). With all that said:
Hands are something I have returned to time and again throughout my life. They’ve always felt more meaningful than any other element of the body. Poets speak of eyes and lips and the curves of spine, leg, waist, rib, but hands… Firm and soft, callused and smooth, a dichotomy gateway to someone's truth. They expand beyond their initial impression, as all of us do. You can learn someone's soul through their nail beds: half moon anchors and mindfully shaped ends. How someone is willing to use their fingers, palms, grip: how they touch the world around them. When I was younger I couldn’t pinpoint why I was drawn to these five pronged forks, the pull simple and innate and unfathomable. As an artist they were a challenge to be conquered, as a lover an object to be won. “Hold my hand, hold it tighter than you’ve ever held something before, please please please”. I believed that if someone held my hand it was love, and that belief continues into this day, even if the definition of love has warped and grown with age and experience. The first time I say “I love you” is when I lace my fingers between yours, even if it is unknown, even if it remains unknown until the end. My hands are precious and guarded and a gift: do not hold them lightly.
As I read and re-read I wonder if the tone shift at the end leading away from introspection and into something to do with love feels cheap and weak and if they should not be two separate pieces, but I’m certainly not going to be the one to make any changes. Despite my concerns of inadequacy I’ll post this anyway since I’m doubtful anyone will find it - I’d have to link it to something in the first place, and it’s hard to say if I’ll do even that.
To anyone who does stumble upon and reads this: don’t tell me. It’s our little one-sided secret.
Otis is sitting on the pillow beside me and is restless as ever for the deep and early morning. He chirps every five seconds as a reminder that he is alive and I am alive and we are alive together. His tail is placed lightly against my arm: an intentional act and the greatest show of love and trust. Maybe his version of a hand hold? I’ll believe it for now.
Go hold a hand, if you can. Hold it gently.