My fascinations with specific parts of the human body are many things. Curiosity, aesthetics, anthropological, certainly sexual, but as a layman in the field of the perception of the human body I’m left wondering: why?
My hands, for instance. I’ve had too many moments recently where I observe them and think: fuck, I have hands. I haven’t lost them and the feeling in them is as a sharp as ever. I appreciate this fact. I can play frontón using these hands. I can hold the racket, lob the rubber ball, guide them in any direction I wish. I have full control over these hands, the kind of control that I believe is taken for granted. I can play sports with them, breathe into them when I think, wield weapons if I must, gently graze the fingers across a partner’s skin, guide them between her lips, run my palm over open flame, build furniture. Fucking furniture! With these hands!
When I finish building a platform for my bed (measure twice, cut once—lesson learned) I might just keep a block of wood on the nightstand. If I am ever at a loss for words I might just look at that block of wood and imagine something my hands can do. I might just pray in gratitude.