Sunday, March 06, 2011

hands

I wrote a poem way back when, before I became human; before I met The One. Not long after the Church abandoned me. I know the poem discussed the despair of being virginal and alone and I know that I used the theme of hands to explore that feeling. It was a gothic poem, a Victorian poem. I also know it was a very poignant poem. I particularly remember the line:

"waarmee ek soms plesier diép uit myself moet wiggel".

Translated, it says (ish):

"with which, at times, I have to invoke pleasure from déép within".

However, LIFE happened and I can't locate the poem or my notes from when I wrote it. It is very, Very Sad to lose a piece of art this way. The One says that he loses musical compositions in the same fashion. It is caused by our own laziness and warped self-confidence, the unshakable belief in our ability to remember.

Anyway, the poem below contains a tiny spark of the lost poem, wailed about in the first stanza. Here it is, did my show-off bilingual way after Elisabeth Eybers' Tydverdryf/Pastime:

versugting
van 'n dertigjarige maagd

ek is my eie wederhelf:
hierdie jou warm lyf
wat ek [soms gulsig nog] met slank
jou hand ontdek wat self
my groter, growwer hand is

my kortgeskeerde kop dra blas
jou swarter, langer hare
en bruin jou groen oë wat na
my oplag uit die glas,
vurig oor my gesig streel

in slaap fluister jy soms my naam
sag in my eie stem
en hou my in jou arms wat
maar weer mý arms word

*

the languish
of a thirty year old virgin

I contain my own better half
and this, your balmy touch
that I explore [voraciously]
at times, discovering
your slim hand, jagged as mine

my shaven head also wears proud
your dark luxurious tress
and from the glass your jade gaze smiles
at me with chocolate look
your touch ignites my cheek

asleep, you softly say my name
in my own raspy voice;
enfold me in you soft white arms
which is my own caress

I know, not my best effort.

All of this history just to come to the point that my theme for the post is hands. I am fascinated with hands. I examine people's hands when I think they don't see me. So, I have decided to write a post about The One's hands and mine. I will post a photograph of each of our hands and write a little about my perceptions of them.

The One











These are the hands of my love. To me, he has the hands of a craftsman... yes, the skilled hands of a carpenter. Wide, strong hands. Crooked fingers, amazingly agile when playing the piano. He has an endearing pair of terribly crooked little fingers.

His hands are sometimes very shaky from the medication. This upsets me.

He also bites his nails and gnaws at his cuticles. Stress is not easy on his hands.

In the pose on this photograph, he has mimicked the way his hands appeared in the photograph which was our first contact. His photo caught my eye on the dating website we both subscribed to in September/October 2005. The rest may all be history, but it frightens me how easily we could have been ships passing in the night, never to meet. What happens to me in that parallel universe?

This way he holds his hands when nervous makes me sad because he looks so very vulnerable and abandoned.

I










These are my hands. I have more elegant hands and straighter fingers than The One. I often obsessively examine my hands for long periods of time to see if I can discover any liver spots, which I find very unattractive. I know that they will have to start appearing on my hands soon. The have appeared overnight on the small and sensible, stylish and very artistic hands of my sister. She is only two years and four months my senior. To me, unrealistically, the appearance of liver spots marks a turning point, a kind of halfway mark.

No, that is not a liver spot you see on the photo, that particular spot has always been there.

I don't bite my nails and I try not to gnaw my cuticles. I give myself a manicure from time to time.

Anyway, my hands are not as wide as The One's. They quickly ache when massaging my love or when trying to play the piano. I can't even complete writing a page by hand; my right hand cramps painfully about halfway through.

I have this memory of the first year in school, when I wanted to write with my left hand. I don't think I really am a born southpaw, but I was just determined to write with my left hand. My teacher, Mrs Kriel, had other ideas. The bloody woman forced me to use my right hand

So, I have the useless, soft hands of an aristocrat. Sly and sinister. And then, suddenly in the middle of a conversation, I remember what I sometimes do with them and they feel obscene and lurid.

I would like to think of them as the hands of a writer.

The One and I










I just thought I should post a picture of us holding hands. Just think of all the things we use our amazing hands for.

*

The kitchen is drowning in filth, the dirty laundry still has to be done because we has a very pleasant visit with the family today. I won't bore you with another dirty kitchen photo, but it is really bad this time. Trust me.


Don't you just love Sunday evenings?

In order to try and make myself forget the disaster which is my life, I have decided to redesign the look of the blog. That depressing brown we had before just was not doing it for me. It looked like the travel blog of a middle aged bachelor. See, I even made a new profile picture of the six of us.

Written by I
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