When one is left handed, it means they must write from their heart. The heart, in the left side of their chest, is attached via marionette string to the writing hand. Whatever they do breathes, smells of nice blood, the scissors they hold in their left hand can only cut half circles: the arch of the rainbow.
Out of the four left handed people I know, I love two. That’s fifty percent. Fifty percent of all left handed people are lovable, definitely.
Inside Mother’s womb you must have licked your left hand more than the right, held it close to your mouth. This makes for a favored hand, the licking and holding close to the mouth. This proximity to the mouth.
Sinister comes from sinestra. As if the left were a terrible cave, a set of red-pupiled eyes, a grey streak in the black hair. Destro is right and skilful. I am right handed, but I don’t feel right. I feel sinister when your left hand is not in my right.
Ninety three percent of the world prefers the right hand, but my love is so Southpawed, so Southern, so South. My love lives in the part of the pie chart that looks like an icepick.
These presidents wrote with their left hands: Ford, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Obama. McCain didn’t win, but he was left handed, too. Many laws have been passed because of left hands. Must have been hard to make signatures, really, when those left hands were moving in the shapes of half moons, guiding the solar system, beckoning the sun.
The right-handers use analysis. The left-handers use synthesis. If there were one thousand pieces of popcorn laid out on the floor, you would be able to find the blue kernels by looking at the whole picture. The right-handers would be sitting in that gymnasium for months, analyzing each stale piece of the Friday night feature.
Will you favor me if I put myself in close proximity to your mouth? Will you flip my pancakes with your favored hand? Will you use synthesis to find which parts of me are blue?
Your problems in the world are great. The Japanese cooking knives. The scissors. The trumpets. And all of the abuse they have put you through! They forced generations of you to convert to the right. They handicapped your very development. They put you in the back of the classroom, called you cackey-handed, made you peel potatoes when it was tough. But there is one thing built for you: the sextant! Find this celestial object on the horizon! You can navigate these stars better than anyone.
The right-handed teacher is confused when instructing the left-handed student. His letters appear backwards to her, inverted. His hand presses into the binding of his notebook, making red rings appear on the cusp of his hand.
May I navigate the solar system of your hand? May I put myself in close proximity to your sextant? Will you govern (sign petitions against) the sour parts of my analysis?
The rifle is supported by the right shoulder. Fired with the right hand. But the good things, like the cigarettes, are held in your left. The wine glass, too. The cup of coffee and the French fry. The pencil and the pen that insist on using cursive well into their adulthood.
Getting the desk with the left-handed arm piece was terrible and shameful.
The Scots said corrie fistit. The English said two left feet. The universe calls you clumsy, awkward, immoral. Your left hand must have been in close proximity to your ______. Your _______ must have been in close proximity to your _______.
You are visual simultaneous.
You are A Brain That Works A Little Bit Differently.
You are my president.
Can I buy you a Yashica Samurai? It is a camera that can be used with both hands. Sometimes, when a left-handed boy uses a right-handed camera, his hands can shake and the picture can blur. If you used my Samurai to take pictures of me naked, maybe then you’d have a second chance.
You are my navigator of Southern seas, my fifty percent, my synthesis. You are sitting alone in the room and your arm fits nicely on that arm piece there on the left side.
