Day Forty: Hands

 A man who works with his hands is a laborer; a man who works with his hands and his brain is a craftsman; but a man who works with his hands and his brain and his heart is an artist--Louis Nizer

To receive everything, one must open ones hands and give.-- Taisen Deshimaru

When you step on the brakes, your life is in your foot's hands--George Carlin

Today's prompt is from The Write-Brain Workbook ,by Bonnie Neubauer:


Finish these shorts:


Her hands were so delicate...


He took my hand in his...


The calluses on his hands...

I have to hand it to you...


Take the next step
Close your eyes and explore your hands as if for the first time. They deliver the writing goods, yet we barely know them. When done, write one thing that surprised you about what came to mind. 

Remember: No rules--play and have fun! 

Later 

 Exercise 40

By L Guerin

Her hands were so delicate. They’re what keep coming back to me, those hands. How she took mine in hers when she saw I was crying about Pops. I was ten and he was the first person I ever saw go down. I knew people got old and died eventually—even knew some got crazy beforehand, but not my people. Nana had been here so long she still line-dried her clothes. And Pops used a magnifying glass instead of glasses. These were permanent people.

He took my hand in his. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know what we’re doing…What I’m doing. You have kids. I’m not sure I can do kids. I tried with…”

                “Shhh,” I said. “Let’s not worry about that. I’m not looking for a father for my children. I just want to have fun.”

                It was true. After agonizing and ultimately turning down a premature marriage proposal from a man who looked great on paper, I was determined to have a more playful approach to dating. A single mom for two years, I wanted a few weekly hours of freedom from responsibility and heavy decisions.

                His brow stayed furrowed. “But there’s something happening here that’s about more than that. At least for me.”

                “For me too. Let’s just take it moment by moment,” I lifted my glass in a toast.

                A month later we attended our first parenting class together.

The calluses on his hands were misleading. I was reminded of a book-- one of Vonnegut’s, featuring a character who sandpapered his fingertips so he could feel every nuance of a woman’s body. He wanted women to become his “willing slaves.”

This man’s fingertips were rough with dry resin. Despite vigorous attempts with a nail brush, ebony dust remained under his nails. This man’s fingertips were not sandpapered.

But they might as well have been.

I have to hand it to you, Kid. You make everything look so easy, so smooth. With your perfect life, you seem to have all of the answers-- didn't miss a day in the "How to Be a Success" master class. Even people with an innate sense of direction hire you to be their cartographer.

Only a handful of us know; you’re just as bored and desperate as the next guy.