My hands my postcards Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Look at my hands, look at how they are dry and cracked around the edges like something that got left out all night. Look at the blister on my thumb from all the pushpins I’ve been pushing into the wall, pinning scraps of my life so that I can always see, so everyone can see. Photographs of family and friends, mugging and smiling trapped on my wall with a sharp metal spike, tickets to concerts and clubs and metros, posters, quotes from books I read a hundred years ago, postcards I bought on a whim, postcards I made, postcards someone sent to me. I’ve been taking these scraps of me up and down and up and down for four years now and now they’re like my hands, all cracked around the edges, but they’re not because all they want is to keep still and slow down and stay in one place for a year or two. All my hands want to do is move and move and move and craft and crochet and type and text and write and write and write and touch and pet and love and never ever ever stop.