wonder if my hands have a memory of their own, if it's not all up in my brain. i do have callouses, after all; from writing, from the guitar, from consistently running my left-hand thumb over this rough piece of wood, this little carved animal my son gave to me. 'for good luck, dad,' he'd said. i think it's supposed to be a tiger, with gaping mouth and fangs and long tail gracefully curled about a hind leg. vaguely threatening, stiff stance. i call him hobbes. he lives in my pockets.
scars. my skin has a memory. so why not my hands?
i'll always remember how to hold a guitar, how to manipulate the strings so it will make the sounds i want from it.
how to dance my fingers across the keys of a piano. how to type. how to hold a baby.
rachel is so familiar under my fingertips, they know where to go and what to do without much conscious thought on my part. when we are able to steal a moment alone together, sometimes it's as if we return to a unique landscape all our own, somewhere not a part of the every day world that never stops.
what if instincts are as much a part of your bones and in your blood, as they are a part of your brain. it's said that love is a chemical reaction. couldn't it be carried in your blood, then? i know a small number of people who seem to have their own place under my skin, in my veins. it happens whether i want it to, or not.
the brain needs the body or it will die, will have no purpose. the body needs the brain in order to function. one without the other is useless. but together, it all makes sense. it works, becomes something far beyond what one could be alone.
being in a band is like that.