The hands of growing-olders. Hands attempting to pick up a magazine, but, to their own surprise, ending up grabbing it; hands still longing to be tender, but ending up being austere and autocratic. Crossed hands in a rigid, marble-like pose, discretely showing their spots, like cinnamon sprinkling. These are melancholic hands that still have troubles with calling time by its name.
And you can’t look at these hands without betraying our little teeny world. And they can’t stand being looked at without anywhere to hide. They disappear in pockets, or cross over chest and lock up under arms, they bury themselves in gloves or simply move faster than required, nervously telling amazing stories about the one who dragged them all the way to here. They have their pride and stubbornness and no intention to drop the case.
Aging hands are very much like the two broken arms of a working clock. They never show time. They fumble with it.
PS: Beautiful Rufus Wainwright doing a Judy Garland, accompanied by his mother. May Kate McGarrigle rest in peace…
This entry was posted on Thursday, January 21st, 2010 at 6:31 pm and is filed under life 'n art. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
This is strange topic, a bit grotesque even. Brown spots on old hands become poetry (or something like that)? ewwwww
Is that your hand?
“beautiful Rufus Wainwright” – this is even more grotesque.
Your imagination is sick, but that’s why I read this blog.
ADE, get rid of these clowns!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ANd by the way. I saw you in Carturesti.
No you haven’t. I’m not where you think I am.
Marcus: Calm down. And I’m not your clown, watch your words. I come here whenever I want, I post whatever I feel like and guess what: surprize – I even like the site.
Perfect song for this post. The wording made me think kindly of my grandmother.
Yes Nanci, our dear grand mothers… I lost both of them….