Hand Job

Click to embiggen that image, darlings, or my typist will get her feelings hurt thinking you are not interested in her latest exercise in fetishistic self-portraiture. Crazy, I know, but apparently a broken wrist is all it takes to send a girl straight down the road to artsy-fartsy ville, which can get so much artsy-fartsier than anything Moose could ever produce or dare to share. You know what I'm talking about, don't you, queer culture mavens? Oh, yes, you do.

Moose, I whisper to her, from my all-seeing, all-knowing post in what, for lack of a better term, we might call Heaven, isn't it a touch melancholic, all this zeroing in on one part of the body and photographing it over and over again, from different angles, in different, borrowed styles? I know you're upset about your wrist, but, really, what would Freud say?

Screw Freud, she mutters, while trying yet again to decide whether "Lolo" or "Cinema" is her favorite CameraBag filter, what did he know about a woman calling her own shots, being the subject and the object of the gaze? Not bloody much, Rox.

She pauses in her work and stares out at the ridiculously large backyard, exploding in a riot of spring color but missing the thing that for nearly sixteen years made it a space of unbridled joy and adventure. Ah, Rox, she says with a sigh, perhaps you have a point.

It's all right, Moose. Remember that line from Forché you always used to quote? Maybe Freud didn't understand everything after all.

The heart is the toughest part of the body.
Tenderness is in the hands.

Peace out, my tender ones. Wherever you are, may spring bring warmth to all the parts of your body and soul.