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This week's words;

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Author Topic: Hand Rail...Object Writing...Taste, Touch, Sight, Sound, Smell and Movement  (Read 626 times)
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« on: December 22, 2008, 02:40:09 PM »

The guardian of the hallway and stairs, waiting in silence for the next old women walking slowly or kid who eyeballs the rail like a limb of a tree. Connecting one room to another, one floor to another, sitting in the heavens above the floor and waiting for hands.

Like spaghetti before it's cooked, laid end to end over the cheese floor. Some feel like rough sawed wood, like a 2 x 4 10 feet long, waiting to be nailed in 16 inch centers to the next wall, some feel black and cold and smooth like ice on the windshield of the car and some are just cold steel, outside the school waiting to get in.

They bid us welcome and goodbye, they weave themselves up staircases and down to the parking lot and insist on one thing, hands.

Handrails hold onto walls with every ounce of strength they have. The brass arms that connect them have 6 holes, each one filled with a steel or brass screw that's been punished into holes drilled with passion into wood, steel or mortar. the sound of a 2.5 inch mortar bit into mortar is like a wild cat caught in a box, scratching and clawing and screeching.

Handrails run parallel to their world, either to stairs or walkways or floors or even swimming pools. They rarely deviate from their channel, holding course like a sailing ship with a sure rudder. The hand of a man hold it securely, the hand of a child hopes it holds on tight and the hand of an old man prays it won't run out from under him with one hand holding a shiny cane and the other the rail. He only
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