I fell in love with my hands tonight. My 3 year old gave me a manicure yesterday - hot pink with glitter. Most of my nails are covered. It feels heavy and catches my eyes at inopportune times.

I'm fascinated with how much my hands look like my mother's hands. Kind of dry, each follicle is obvious, each crease and bend mapped out. I wonder what a palmist would say, following my life line, my heart line, my head line. I remember in elementary school we'd try to predict how many kids we'd have, or whether we'd die young and tragically, or marry well, just by reading palms.

I press my fingers together. Namaste. I press my thumbs against my eyes, near my nose, my first fingers touch my forehead. My fingers bend and voila - a cathedral of flesh. My water glass shines blue through my pinkies: a stained glass in blue at the altar.

I stare at my palms again, wonder at the geometry of the lines: right angles, obtuse angles, bisecting parallelograms. Math has a certain poetry, as long as you aren't stressing about it.

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I'm listening to Loreena McKennitt An Ancient Muse It is beautiful. Haunting.

I just finished King Dork by Frank Portman (see his blog at http://www.doktorfrank.com/) This is an excellent book - Mr. Portman has caught the essence of being a misfit teen. I enjoyed it tremendously. (We're discussing it at the YARG - Young Adult Reading Group on Readerville - www.readerville.com )