This blog is not work safe. This blog has a somewhat foul mouth. This blog has a parakeet egg buried in its temple.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

Hands 


This is my hand. One can tell it's a hand. Hands trip me out sometimes, all that they see, so to speak. Hands are in everything, unlike the back of one's neck. The nape sees some good times to be sure, but it also spends quite a lot of life being a place for hairs and shirt tags to irritate. I like people's hands anyway. I look at a hand and wonder what the owner is like. Hard working, hard living, kind to animals, secret glutton, nose picker--that sort of thing. Looking at my hand from the outside, I'd say sausage maker. I don't make sausages, not at all. But from this picture, my fingers look the sort that loiter round the nozzle of a grinder catching casing and whirling it into links.

Trying to think about hooking up my scanner. We've lived here a year and I've yet to unpack it. Hrm.
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