i hope my words are strange and wondrous,

like kisses that quiet all things superfluous,

so that we can all stop and

listen

fitting themselves into that which is most familiar to them.

like the way one holds a mug,

or the curl of fingers around a pencil.

the familiar tap of keyboard squares,

or the feel of the strings against the contour of the flesh.

when a hand has to familiarize itself with something new,

it goes through a series of evolutions.

the fingers find new ways to live with each other,

and little callouses appear to protect the vulnerability of un-molded hands.

when a hand has to defamiliarize itself with something old,

it also goes through a series of evolutions.

they repeat old routines only to meet with awkward in-betweens,

and sometimes old surfaces have to be scrubbed off intentionally for vulnerability's sake,

before cynicism and bitterness become a hard crust that gels with the softest parts of the palm.

my hands have been familiarized,

my hands have been defamiliarized,

to think of the "how i got here" induces fatigue,

there is so much.

but here they are again,

being molded,

into new familiar things,

these hands,

they are becoming new sculptures..

and as always,

the artist is not just one.