Rainer Would you give up your hands to fly? That is what the birds have done.

(The One Thousand Questions)
ricmariem chief servant of the body 991031
FooLmOOn hands, that tell your life, that speak ur soul, the hands that have touched, rubbed, caressed, the hands that have hurt, bled, burnt ...the hands that no one seems to see, i see urs, they are perfect. 991102
trakie i draw them over and over in my sketchbook. i can't get enough of them. i will keep on until i get a really good one, even though that will take forever. hands are so expressive, it is almost impossible to capture the essense, except in a memory. 991206
valis always wide open for the catch, that's my philosophy 000108
Brad My livelihood. I treasure these above all material possessions and many of my other body parts. The link between my brain and those of other people. My link between the creative mind world and the physical world. Pretty spectacular things, when you think about it. 000327
MollyGoLightly Hands are hyperimporant to me. Other people's hands. I stare at other people's hands when I talk to them. I have never dated anyone who had ugly hands. 000328
Brad Molly... in all honesty... are the nails on my right hand all that bad? Your opinion as a hand-conscious friend is greatly appreciated. Not like i'll clip 'em... guitar is more important than groovy hands :) 000328
MollyGoLightly the nails aren't scary...they're kind of neat, actually...so no need to worry about aesthetic sacrifices you have to make for your gee-tar 000506
erin There was a two-year period when my grandmother lived with my family. She stayed in a room with my sister and me, and she slept in our room on a mattress. She pinned her brown dyed hair around pink curlers every night, and wore a dressing gown that hid whatever shape her body had. She would sing to us in Spanish every night, songs about hands. “What beautiful hands I have that God gave me. They are from my mother. They come from my father. What beautiful hands I have.”
My grandmother would work lotion into her hands every night. Still when she rubs her lipstick off my forehead I smell Vaseline Intensive Care. Her hands are youthful and fleshy, with taut skin on the palms, and few wrinkles on the back. They move like music when she speaks Spanish, touching and playing with her thoughts in the air, sometimes cutting sharply to punctuate. Her hands are the same olive color as mine, but hers are so much more delicate and feminine. They are like lilies, if lilies could dance.
The four kids in my family have always called our Cuban grandmother Baba. The name makes my friends who have no Hispanic background chuckle, but nicknames are second nature in my family, so Baba is Baba to me, and her real name, Elena, sounds impersonal. The soundBabaseems to fit perfectly who she is in my mind. She is small and succinct, compact and solid. Her frame is bent with osteoporosis, and I am a full head and shoulders taller than she is. She is stubborn. She once traveled across the country with my family in a motor home. Six people crammed into a shoebox on wheels, and rode all the way to Arizona. When we got there, Baba refused to even step out the door. After the four-day trek, she decided that the Grand Canyon was some sort of black hole, waiting to suck her in. “I can see it through the window,” she said. My parents vowed never to take her on a vacation again. Baba is my grandmother, though, and although she can be set in her ways of thinking, she is firmly dedicated to her grandchildren. Nothing pleases her more than to see ushealthy,” which isfat” translated from Baba-speak. She always has a stock of chocolate ice cream, Coke, and Chessmen cookies in her fridge for us to munch on. Whenever I see her she pinches my side and chides me for being so “skeeny.”
Things weren’t always this way. I wasn’t always so skinny. According to family lore, I was a robust, tan little baby who popped into the world at a whopping 10 pounds. Baba says that holding me was like carrying around a bowling ball. She loves to recall the time that she and I were at the pool, and she was teaching me how to swim. I suppose I was around two or three, and still fatter than a Butterball turkey. There was a Hispanic couple nearby who didn’t realize my grandmother could speak Spanish. While I lolled and rolled in the water, they gaped at me and broke into laughter. “Mira, mira….parece como albondigita!” Look, look...she’s like a little meatball. Baba still calls me albondiga when she’s especially happy with me. No one else in my family can call me that without seriously denting my pride. I don’t know how Baba gets away with it, but it’s probably because she’s so tiny. It’s easy to assume that Baba is as honest as I’d like her to be. Just the same, I know there are things she doesn’t tell us about our family’s history. She gets away with this because she is small, and she is Baba without fault.
I was talking to my mom about my father’s side of the family a few days ago. The phone call topped two hours, simply because there was so much to say. My Baba has lived through a lot, but pain only shows in her face when she remembers Jose, or Abuelo. Jose, her son, was murdered when he was 21. Her ex-husband, my Abuelo, left her and their two sons just a year and a half before Jose died. It’s odd, but for a long time, I never thought Baba could be sad. She never seemed to feel pain.
One day we were working at the local Catholic food pantry, like we did every Friday that summer. The afternoon was particularly hot, and only a few people walked up to our window every hour. I was thirteen, and by then my baby fat was gone. Baba and I sat that day by the food counter, and she filled the humid silence with the sadder stories of our family’s past. She told me about Jose, and the time of sadness and loss after he was gone. My mother has since told me that Baba barely lived for months after he died. Baba told me in Spanish that she felt like nothing. I imagine Baba in a state where she was always ready for bed, in an old nightgown that hid her body, and her hair wrapped tightly around rollers. I imagine Baba never leaving a darkness of not caring, and not venturing past her backyard for days. While Baba told me Jose’s story, she held the cross she always wears. Her hands clutched it and were still. She looked through me with a blank face. She said that when Jose died, A rose bush he had planted earlier in the year bloomed during the middle of winter. When she saw the red roses they reminded her of Jose while he was bringing joy to people. Baba knows the blooming rose bush was a miracle.
My mother and I were talking again today about my father’s family, because recently a blood test showed high protein levels in Baba’s blood. The condition is mild, but she has do undergo chemotherapy or it could worsen. My mom went to Baba’s preliminary appointment with her. She described the nurses turning my grandmother’s arms every which way to be able to find usable veins, because Baba’s tend to be weak from lack of exercise. My mother said that even while the nurses were just talking about the procedures, Baba’s hands clutched her cross to keep them from shaking. It’s odd, but I never thought Baba felt fear. Since her the veins in her arms won’t work, they’ll have to use veins in her hands. I imagine Baba speaking to me in Spanish with her hands still, because they are bruised purple and painful.
I am afraid for Baba, even though I know that the chemotherapy isn’t severe. I feel like she can’t leave while there are silences left for her to break, but I also understand that Baba isn’t immortal at age 72. Since birth Baba has been my sense of culture and history, especially when she and I talk in Spanish and she tells me stories. I know she might not be here by then, but I want her to sing Spanish songs to her great grandchildren, and tell them they are too skinny. If she is already with Jose when my children are born, I’ll try my best to be what Baba was to me. I’ll cook her style of flan and picadillo. If they’re a little pudgy, I’ll call them albondiga. I’ll sing Spanish songs to them as they fall asleep, and maybe I’ll add a verse about Baba and how her hands could talk.

--i'm sorry about the length...feedback and criticism is completely welcome if you have it.
albondigita ick....a lot of the paragraphs got lost in the pasting...sorry if it's harder to read in one big block.... 000720
wolfman hands are the most important part of the body.. there Gods gifts.. used to express yourself when youve run out of words. imagine your only love and your hands... and how you can make her feel with them... now imagine being denied that gift of god. 000912
d .... of glory 000912
nachtvogel die hand die heilt

die hand die verletzt
marissssssaaaaa something i remember from the beginning... we would sit at lunch, still afraid to touch eachother, our hands so close, but not touching, just so close that i could feel the heat of them mixing together. it is an amazing feeling. 001113
rache Hands. Always my friend Sarah. I miss her now. But reflected in my two best friends are Her mannierisms, Her movements, Her Hands.

It's odd. She was the best friend I ever had, or so I thought. Then she left, and we drifted far far apart.

I had no friends for a long time. I was too shy to make new ones, too fucked up inside to stride out alone.

Then I met Sally. We clicked. It was great. We were immediatly best mates, unsperable. As we spent more time together, I realised she was very like Sarah in many ways. She often spoke with the same tone of voice, the same mannerisms. Especially with her hands. Sometimes when she talked, or when we simply sat in comftable silence(i love comftable silences!!Hands up those who agree!) she would sit with her hands in her lap, twisting them in interesting patterns and as they moved, there would be a momment of recognision. A little like Deja Vu.

That was in year nine. In year ten, I met Caroline. Another click.
Again, we became fast friends. We spent a lot of time together, sharing secrets, talking for hours on the phone, arguing over Truth, Love and the usual teenage angst. I was still great friends with Sally to, and the best times for me would be when we were a three together. A lot of the time, caroline was more friendly with Charlotte, an old friend of mine. But suprisingly for this green-eyed monster, I was never jealous. I had Sally.

But now Caroline and I, and Sally and I too, are very close, and every now and again, I look at their hands, and I see, within in them and their movements, a part of Sarah.
Barrett Idle hands...
end up masturbating.
stupidpunkgirl your hands are so perfect
i want to memorize every detail
line, and shape
i want to run my fingers over the palm of your hand
i can't though, since you are gone
velvetsea i miss his hands the most. and I doubt he misses mine. 010126
vampers i shall never forget the comfort i have felt today from you as your hands brush over my hair, my face, myself

i need it now more than ever
alegra my hands,inside your hands,inside your pockets. 010411
velvet spasm no words over this part 010419
Prinz_Zoisit I've a fetish for hands, especially their fingers and nails. And I've got a friend, who has so beautiful fingers. I always look at them at school. I don't know if he knows, that I've got a fetish for his fingers, but sometimes when I talk to him, I look at his fingers... He says nothing, maybe, he knows, maybe not. But sometimes, I think that I would do everything for him, sexually, SM, etc... he's like a God for me, but I don't show him...
I'm so happy that "nobody" on this world has a fetish like me on his fingers. I would be sooooooo jealous, if somebody knows his hidden beauty...
I think, I'll tell him in the future. I would pay everything for making a photo of his fingers, so I could look at them all the time.
But he, himself, has a very weak body, but he's very intelligent. And I think, when you do "not" eat much, your fingers will get long so that your knuckles can be slightly seen...
I think, I've beautiful fingers, too. But those of my friend are the best on the world...
constella lines
crosses and
your hands are so beautiful in every way

to feel your rough palms against mine makes me quiver in delight

you never relized how much it meant to me when you held my hands in yours

you will never fully understand how you pushed away my sadness

your hands i will always love
yet you shall never know
firefly effect people don't value the importance of holding hands.

it made me fall in love with HIM
pootang apparently ambidextrous,
he did things with his hands that no one has ever done.
Kati my hands are my weakness
the skin is dry and chapped
my nails are bitten down unevenly and little pink nubs rise above them
my cuticles ave been chewed, ripped, and torn
any emotional distress i feel i take out on my hands
i try to hide them and i am embarrassed when they are seen
my hands give away the pain in my soul to outsiders.
my hands reveal my secrets
Lindsey i told him i fell in love with him because his fingers were long and his hands slender enough to hold comfortably. that was only one of the reasons. 020105
Grievance Wing Biddlebaum hid his, poor man,
poor poor fortunate man.
kerry my fingers long, thin, dextrous... my palms are always icy.
my mother says, "cold hands, warm heart."
ClairE You looked so inutterably sad that I didn't know what to do. We had stepped back outside my room and your coat was on and you said nothing. It was like your eyes were trying to speak to me, but I was too far away to be able to hear the words.

We walked towards the door and I took your hand. And you didn't drop it.

That's enough to give me hope, right?
Understudy To Abby Grey 'I don't know what I should do
with my hands when I talk to you.
You don't know where you should look
so you look at my hands.'
unhinged if men didn't have hands
their penises
would be absolutely useless
if they didn't have hands
they couldn't unbutton
and unzip
and slide clothes off
and their handless condition
would form the word
'no' on my hopelessly
hopeful lips
pushpins I feel your adamant heart
Falling apart
In my hands again tonight.
Isaw the ethereal glow in your
Please-don’t-hurt-me green eyes
I couldn’t help but cry
And tonight I die.
Syrope i hate mine...they really do reveal a person's weaknesses...they're painfully plain but i can glare at them for hours...i see chubby fingers and grungy looking knuckles (its a pigment thing)...and my nails are gnawed and stunted

i love his...i dont think they'd be so wonderful if they weren't attached to such strong arms, because then they couldn't massage me the way they do...all over...but they're so large, my hand fits so neatly in his, and they're calloused from working hard, but clean, with healthy-pink trimmed nails. i love to watch them turn into gentle explorers skimming across my skin...i think they're my favorite part of him.
blown cherry
Your hand gently holding mine,

my hand desperately clutching yours.
~gez~ can do so much
so rewarding
so deserving
im going to learn reflexology
~gez~ i think i have a hand fetish 021104
pipedream i like my hands, specially my fingers. they are shaped like my mother's, crooked fingers tapering off upwards..and the rest of my hand is my father's...sometimes my hand looks like a funny appendage to my arm because i have a very thin wrist.
cold hands, warm heart? that's good to hear; mine are cold nearly all the time. another mom thing :)
starjewel One time my best friend Reness and I
we were talking
And we got to thinking how small
our hands would look
iside those of the men we love
and we wanted to know which one of us
had smaller hands
We put them together and found they were the exact smae size
from palm to palm
figer tip to finger tip
now we're convinced we were
sisters or something in another lifetime
she has the exact same size feet as me too
Her heart though;
I think is bigger sometimes
jane see: rolling

my grandmother's hands are like thin paper, her nails adorning the edges like delicate petals around the pistil of a flower...

she's amazing.
tori i'm in the bathroom stall.
she walks into the stall next to me,
rustles around, does her stuff, and...leaves?
who was she? i dont want ne more diseases! dirty girl! i think as i wash my hands and leave.
shivers mine are so small, me finger tips barely make it over your knuckles when we kiss palms. i love the lines in the back of yours when they move. tendons or muscles im not sure, but their perfect 031115
nootme he sent me his left hand

i wanted to grab it and run

but 'no'
because it didn't seem right

to leave without a home
nootme i told him what the gypsies know

about change and what life brings
lou_la_belle hands were always the first sign that you were "going out" in elementary and juniour high...its funny to think that even at that age we got something right about romance. hands are key. for sure. theres this one memory i have of sitting through a cramped grade nine social studies review. it was for the final. but i dont remember a single word because i was sitting beside my boyfriend at the time, and well, he was holding my hand. but holding is putting it lightly, 'cause to me holding implies stillness and our hands were anything but still. i remember feeling shocked, 'cause well, he was quite shy about things like that, and at the same time, unbelievably happy that he had finally stepped up to the plate. lol. i don't think i was that happy for a long time after...perhaps thats where i got my hand obsession from. makes sense now that i think about it... 040527
Lint Lover And you grabbed my left hand with your right and lead me onto your bus.That felt nice.You didn't let go for almost an hour. I felt special.
I squeezed as tight as I could to let you know that I never wanted to let you go from that moment and that I never wanted to let go.

Strange that your hands remind me of my dad's.

I know the face of my soulmate
I've seen his eyes in my heart's memories and remember them from my dreams
I've felt the strength of his hands
wrapped around mine,overtakng mine
Deeply pressed and entwinded with mine

Dry palms and enveloping fingers are only dress rehearsals,innocent pre-cursors to the thoughts
I would be having
Wet tongues and warm mouths
and feeling you inside
Splinty my hands are small I know, but theyre not yours they are my own, theyre not yours they are my own and I am never broken... 040811
pete i feel your hands tracing the outline of my spine as we lay together in my unkempt bed. the sheets lay mosty at the foot of the bed, and no effort has been made to make any sort of order out of the tangle. drifting in and out of sleep, the day has been a haze of conversations, kisses, and silent bliss.

our bodies are slick with the sweat of a humid mid-august day, and the only sound track we have is the rumbling of city trucks and the unending whirring of the desk fan. as you slide your hands along my naked back, i hear you gently singing one of your songs.

with my eyes closed, every touch, every syllable is magnified. i sigh softly into the pillow we share. your hands stop moving, resting around my waist.

i pull you closer, and kiss your forehead. we slip into dream, you curled against my body, our sweat dripping from our bodies.

when i open my eyes i meet yours.

"so it wasn't a dream" you said.
cpgurrl i watch
my hands as
they cut
my hair
seperating it from my head,
and the golden hair
to the white linoleum,
free from my body.
? christian's hands are always warm. I like to hold them, or sit with his hands resting on my waist, on the skin where the t shirt doesn't quite meet the jeans. 041106
Borealis pete's words under this blathe were some of the most painful words I've ever read.. 041106
dash i was once told by someone i used to know, an appretice chef
advice given to him
advice given to me
and now to you, or perhaps just something to think about
people with rough hands...
hands that have known work, stress,
these are the people that will
usually help someone in need
they seemed more likely to help others
in some sort of emergency
as opposed to some
whose hands have not seen work,
that are smooth...
usually are the ones who will turn
away from a call from help
who will only cover their own asses.
marie Borealis is right. 050823
pete it was a dream 050823
falling_alone most of the time so i don't forget i write everything i need to know on the back of my hand. days at a time this goes on and the ink never washes off so as one day fades it's overlapped with a new day of remembering or doodles. my hans are layered with ink. my mother constantly tells me i'll get ink poisoning but its the only way i'll remember. at one point we tried alternative methods like a string tied around my finger. sometimes i would forget what the string was for but i still tried and had her tie it around my finger, but now, theres no one to tie my string it's very hard to get a nice bow using only one hand to tie it around the other. my concern isn't ink poisoning, but that whenever i rub my eyes i'm afraid of a black stain on my face. 060207
(_) never held yours, so
how can i see them right enough
to express feeling?
LS My hands are large and speckled with scars. They are tough and nimble. Strong, firm, and gentle. I can break bricks with these hands. Its fun, but I would rather let someone else hold my hands instead of me. 060208
REAListic optimIST again i don't sleep
again i don't eat
sometimes i forget
but i still have my feet

i can walk to you
i can walk away
i can walk to my drum
sit down and play

and when i do
you're out of my head
out of my heart
and out of my bed

i will play all day
all night if i can
'cuz i have my soul
and i have my hands

-funky butt drum club
. . 070621
On... I am turned. Well groomed hands: so sexy! The arc of a man's hand, the muscles of the fingers, the grace of touch, tactility... 070622
yay ! it's the secret hand shake i'm in the famous 5 070622
flowerbed on a cloud I miss yours. I miss them so much. Would you please do that thing you did to my hands again when I see you again in May?
Will you be as sexy with your words as you are with your hands?
I miss you. Even though you can hurt me more then anybody else.

I love you. And I hate it. And I love it.
hands you can go inside but can you ever really go
of any side at all
what's it to you?
who go