Baby Finger

There’s no such thing as a small accident.

Last fall I severed two tendons in the baby finger of my right hand. It happened in Montreal. There was an operation. There have been many decisions and weirdities along the way.

My baby finger has become the child I never had. It’s poor pulpy self rules my life. It needs to be oiled, massaged, bathed, wiped, talked to, yelled at, and above all, exercised. It wakes up needy in the night - every two hours it needs something. Wars and pestilence, floods, starvation, all pale in the face of my injured digit and the ripple effect it creates. Decisions are made that have repercussions deep into my life. All patterns are revealed, all insanities, hysterias, and internal personal loops wind themselves around the scarred tissue of my baby finger. Lies come to peek through the bandage of life.

Baby Finger isn’t about anything as sucky as ‘healing’ - it’s about not healing. Maybe. It’s about severing. About how you can’t quantify pain. It’s about making the same stupid decisions over and over until you’re screaming NOOOOOO! It’s about how everything is connected - from your baby finger, to your whole body, to the baby you once were.