Tuesday, 09 December 2003 | Hands of a businessman

I've been playing my guitar again. Well, some. For the last few years, my guitar sat in the corner like a child that's misbehaved, stuck there so I can ignore it. Ignoring it over a period of time, it recently told me, makes its fretboard pale and dusty, and turns its strings into sharp, skin-piercing wires. It also makes my fingers soft and naive, like the hands of a businessman; the callouses that were once there have been neatly absorbed into my skin like lotion. There's more: the brain in my head and the brain in my hands have forgotten how to be dance partners, as well as some of the steps crucial to "dancing." They don't want you to watch them as they try to relearn. They really hope their neighbors can't hear them make the pear-shaped wood cry.