My hands are what I write with, turn pages with, paint with, pat my dog with. Their meaning is deeply embedded. They are the way I connect with the world, with others, create music, art and physical connection. And they tremble. They shake. Sometimes like leaves, often it’s nothing but a barely perceptible vibration, the echoes of a train approaching, thrumming through the tracks. I focus my attention on them and feel nothing but the shuddering and a sense of dislocation, amputation, as if they are submerged in a powerful current of water and are entirely out of my control.
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