I have water hands.  No this doesn’t mean I have big bloated hands that hold lots of liquid.  It has something to do with palmistry, that is the reading of the palm and hands to foretell someone’s destiny.  Palmistry is a good trick to learn if you like getting girls into bed, but for anything else it’s really just a joke.  But I really like hands, always have.

There is something about them that sets us apart from pretty much every other living thing.  Sure some lizards have hands, some primates have hands, hell, my cat can lift and hold things curled in its paw!  So the idea that just having the ability to pick things up isn’t all that great or new for that matter.  But having hands is still something amazing.

I remember I dated a Doctor once who had flat and wide finger tips.  Her nails were these pearls that rounded into what I could only call flower buds.  It was beautiful, almost as if her fingers were stems of baby flowers just on the verge of blooming.  I loved her hands, though I just wanted to bed her.  I hope that she went on to marry some Doctor and is raising little doctor children.  She was definitely not thinking straight when she started dating a drunk musician looking to get lucky, which I never did, I guess that makes her the lucky one.  Hell I don’t know.

Anyway, I used to draw hands more than I would care to draw faces.  They say that no two people look alike, but that’s really crap, eventually the faces start to bleed into the same basic shapes and if you look at enough of them, they all look a little alien and confusing.  Besides, hands don’t ever ask you why you drew them that way.  People don’t give a shit about their hands, they can’t imagine the greatness that hands can accomplish, so they sort of ignore them…especially women, who base their entire lives on their face, breasts, and ass, not always in that order.  What do they care about some stupid appendages, unless they are made to just hold large diamond rings.

My wife, she's got great hands. Nothing like them in the world. Like china plates, delicate, wonderous. Her fingers are rounded, even, beautiful. No bulging knuckles. No scars. No extra skin or sloppy nail shape. If she liked she could cut off her womany fingernails and wear them like a grease monkey would, and still look heavenly. She probably doesn't know this but holding her hand is blissful. It is smooth and tranquil. I can't imagine age ever catching up with them. Perfection.

I would have more hand pictures for you all to witness, but sorry to say, somewhere along the line I destroyed them all.  Drunk, depressed, and wielding a sword do not friends make.  I took my anger out on those drawings one night, along with a few beer cans.  My roommates were not happy. I should have told them that it was a new art piece, called...the 5 destructions, but I didn't...I wonder who cleaned that up? Oh well.

I don’t know why I’m talking about hands.  Maybe because I’m typing more than holding things in them now and somehow the act of this, and their shaking, reminds me of something that I must have found important once.  You know, one of those ancient mysteries that only seem to be valuable to you when your 24.  The kind of thing that keeps you awake at night, but when you do sleep it’s the sleep of millions of years of understanding.  That sort of simple, real logic that exists, somewhere, sometime, as if it were something that you could…hold.  Something you could touch, and make real even if the moment before it was all imaginary.  And holding things is good.  It’s warn and real, and weighty.  It’s natural.  It’s about as close to god like as we little idiots can come.

Okay, so I was wrong when I said picking things up isn't all that great.

What do I know.