Pic of the Day

Moment of Zen: White Briefs

There’s something timeless and undeniably sexy about a man in just a pair of white briefs.

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A Dream Interrupted (By a Diva in Fur)

Isabella can be a bit of a needy diva at times—lovable, adorable, and absolutely convinced that my entire existence revolves around her schedule. This morning she woke me up just before 5 a.m., demanding breakfast with all the urgency of someone who had not been fed in minutes. I obliged, of course, and then crawled straight back into bed. I was originally supposed to be in the office this morning, but my class got rescheduled, which means a work-from-home day for me.

I fell asleep again almost instantly and drifted into the loveliest dream. In it, I was snuggled up next to a very handsome man—the kind of hot guy who makes your subconscious say, “Yes, let’s stay here.” He was straight in the dream, but we were sharing a bed anyway. Somehow the night had ended with us in nothing but our underwear, my head on his bare chest, his arm around me, the whole moment soft and warm and unexpectedly intimate.

When we woke up like that, dream-me stayed blissfully half asleep until he leaned down, kissed the top of my head, and murmured, “Good morning, lazy bones.” I made one of those half-asleep groans that means, I refuse to move, and he just pulled me closer. We drifted back to sleep like that—sweet, slow, and yes, very arousing. I was rock hard in the dream… and in real life, too. It was that good.

But of course, Isabella does not approve of me going back to bed once she has declared morning officially underway. After her first breakfast, she decided she needed my attention—or, more accurately, a second breakfast. Instead of enjoying more of my dream, I was summoned back to consciousness by a diva cat with very firm beliefs about my responsibilities.

And now? Isabella is curled up in the corner of the living room sound asleep, looking perfectly content, while I’m sitting on the couch writing this post.

Sigh.

Sometimes I wonder who’s actually in charge around here—but I already know the answer.

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The Rise and Fall of Toronto’s Alexander Wood Statue

Yesterday, while reading, I came across a reference that stopped me in my tracks: gay men in Toronto rubbing the bare butt on a statue for luck. As both a gay man and a museum person, that kind of detail lights up every curiosity circuit in my brain. The scene also reminded me of the old military practice of the “short arm inspection”—the venereal disease check that required soldiers to line up and present themselves for examination. Little moments of sexualized institutional history like that have always existed in the margins, half whispered but universally known.

And so it seemed fitting that the statue in question was the Alexander Wood monument that once stood in Toronto’s Church and Wellesley Village—a monument rooted in its own scandal of inspection, accusation, and rumor.

Alexander Wood (1772–1844) was a Scottish merchant and magistrate who became a prominent figure in early Toronto (then York). He served in several civic roles and was involved in shaping the young colony. But today, he’s remembered primarily for a scandal that forever marked his reputation—and later, queer history.

In 1810, a young woman named Miss Bailey claimed she had been sexually assaulted. Her description was vague, but she insisted she could identify the assailant by marks on his genitals.

As a magistrate, Wood investigated the case, questioning several male suspects. Historical accounts state that he personally inspected their genitals to look for corroborating marks.

This highly unusual method sparked gossip and ridicule.

What makes the incident even murkier is that many historians doubt the woman’s existence altogether. Some believe “Magdalena Nagle” may have been invented—either by Wood, his rivals, or the community at large. The absence of solid records fueled speculation in his own time and afterwards.

Regardless, the scandal led to public humiliation and accusations—spoken and unspoken—about Wood’s sexuality. Though never charged with wrongdoing, he fled temporarily to Scotland before quietly returning to his life in Upper Canada.

In 2005, Toronto’s LGBTQ+ community sought to commemorate queer history in public space. Although Wood’s sexual orientation is not documented, many queer historians reclaimed him as a possible queer ancestor—a man punished socially for perceived sexual deviance long before there was a vocabulary to defend himself.

Thus the community commissioned a statue honoring both his life and his place in queer memory.

lThe bronze sculpture, created by Del Newbigging, depicted Wood in early-19th-century attire—not a military uniform, but the formal dress of a gentleman of his era. His pose was confident, with one hand tucked behind him and the other holding a walking stick.

At the base of the statue was a plaque showing an engraved tableau: a young militia soldier with his pants partially lowered, presenting his bare buttocks for Wood’s infamous inspection. That image wasn’t part of the main statue—it was the plaque that made the scandal visually explicit.

And then came the charmingly queer detail: Newbigging openly stated that he modeled the soldier’s butt on the backside of his own partner.

A gift of love, art, and cheeky community pride.

The Village quickly embraced the statue with a sense of humor. Gay men began rubbing the bare butt on the plaque for luck, and as is always the case with bronze, repeated contact polished the metal to a gleaming shine. What started as a joke became a familiar ritual—a flirtatious, communal wink at queer history.

Placed at the entrance of Church and Wellesley, the statue served as a landmark for Toronto’s queer community. It stood in a district deeply associated with LGBTQ+ identity, activism, and resilience, marking the neighborhood with a figure reclaimed from historical shaming.

For many, it symbolized both pride and solidarity—a public monument that didn’t hide the queer interpretation but made it impossible to ignore.

Over time, the statue’s presence became more complicated. Some critiques focused on its campy sexualization or the historical uncertainty of Wood’s queerness. But a more serious criticism emerged:

Alexander Wood served on the Society for Converting and Civilizing the Indians and Propagating the Gospel Among Destitute Settlers in Upper Canada—an organization whose mission and practices were part of the colonial machinery that later contributed to the development of the Indian residential school system in Canada.

For Indigenous activists and allies, Wood’s connection to early assimilationist institutions made him an inappropriate figure for public commemoration. This dimension of his legacy was long overlooked but gained prominence in recent years as Canada confronted the deep harms of residential schools.

The statue thus became not only a queer symbol but also a site of contested memory.

When the site was sold to a condominium developer in 2022, community groups requested that the statue be relocated rather than removed. But issues of ownership, cost, and ongoing controversy complicated the process.

The statue was taken down quietly.

Placed in storage.

And ultimately destroyed—a loss that felt abrupt and painful to those who viewed it as a cornerstone of Village identity.

The Alexander Wood statue existed at the crossroads of queer reclamation, artistic expression, colonial history, and community identity. Its destruction leaves a literal void in the Village streetscape—a reminder that public memory is fragile and often shaped by forces beyond our control.

The polished bronze butt on the plaque may be gone, but the story remains:

of queer history reclaimed, contested, celebrated, and sometimes lost

And maybe that is the nature of queer memory itself—surviving in the stories we continue to tell.

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Feeling a Bit Low Today

I really don’t have much to say today. I’m feeling a bit low — just a little sad and worn down — and I’m not up to writing much this morning. Some days are like that: quiet, heavy, and a little gray around the edges.

I’m giving myself permission to keep things simple today, and I hope you’ll do the same if you need it. Be kind to yourselves, and I’ll be back when my spirits lift a bit.

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If Time Would Let Us

 

If Time Would Let Us
By Theresa Williams Hudson
 
I wish we could wake
each morning forever—
the soft light on your face,
your breath beside mine,
the world still quiet,
just us.
 
But time is a thief
with gentle hands,
unfolding the hours
like pages we didn’t mean to turn.
 
I watch you in moments—
your laugh,
the way your eyes still find mine
in a crowded room,
the way your hand finds mine
in the dark.
 
And I think—
what if this is all we get?
 
What if this love,
this life,
was always a flame meant to flicker
just long enough
to change everything it touched?
 
Time is slowing.
Time is ending.
And still, I’d choose you
in every hour we’re given.
 
Even in the leaving,
you’re worth the ache.
Even in the silence,
you echo.
 
If time would let us,
I’d never let you go.
But if it must,
then let me love you
so fiercely
you feel me
even in the quiet after.
 
 
About the Poem
 
This past Saturday, November 29, marked ten years since I lost a dear friend in a car accident. He and I met through this blog. What began as comments and emails grew into an everyday friendship—we texted constantly, starting each morning with a “good morning” and ending each night with “I love you.”
 
We never got the chance to meet in person, though we had planned to. My next academic conference was going to bring me to his city, and we were both excited to finally see each other face to face. Until then, our friendship lived in words—words that carried us through laughter, struggles, and the simple comfort of daily check-ins.
 
His life had been unbearably difficult. When he came out, his family disowned him. The boyfriend who had inspired him to come out abandoned him when he needed love most. He suffered night terrors almost every evening, haunted by the cruel voices planted in him by those who should have cared for him. And yet, he was one of the sweetest souls I’ve ever known. He loved browsing the greeting card aisle, picking out cards that reminded him of friends, and sending them just because. I still have many of those cards and treasure them. He even sent cards to his family, though they always came back unopened—sometimes with hateful notes scrawled across them.
 
But in the months before his death, things were finally turning around. He had a boyfriend who loved him deeply, a man who planned to propose to him on Christmas morning. He had a good job, was preparing to move back near his partner, and was about to begin graduate school. For the first time in a long time, his life was on the verge of stability, love, and happiness. And then, tragedy took him away.
 
Though he was in my life for only a short time, his influence was profound. He gave me strength and courage when I needed it most. Once, when I was nervous about meeting someone I’d connected with online, he encouraged me to take the chance. I did, and that leap became a lasting relationship with a man who was not only a boyfriend, but also a fellow scholar and Episcopal priest, someone I could talk to about both history and faith. That never would have happened without my friend urging me to step out of my comfort zone.
 
After his death, I couldn’t even say his name without bursting into tears. For years, grief made his memory almost too heavy to bear. Yet time, though it took him from me, also left behind echoes—his laughter, his words of encouragement, his insistence that life is meant to be embraced. Today, I keep a framed picture of him in my living room. When I hesitate at the edge of change, I look at that picture, and I can almost hear him telling me again: take the chance.
 
Theresa Williams Hudson’s poem captures the ache of this anniversary perfectly. “But time is a thief with gentle hands, unfolding the hours like pages we didn’t mean to turn.” That’s how it felt—like the story of his life was moving toward hope, only to have the pages snatched away before he could finish the chapter. Her words—“what if this love, this life, was always a flame meant to flicker just long enough to change everything it touched?”—remind me that though his flame was short, it changed me forever.

Hudson ends with: “Even in the leaving, you’re worth the ache. Even in the silence, you echo.” That is exactly how I remember my friend. Even ten years later, he is worth every ache of grief. And even in the silence of his absence, he still echoes in my life—in kindness, in courage, and in love. He is the one who encouraged me to take the risk of applying for the job in Vermont, the one decision that reshaped my life and brought me here. Every time I step into a new chapter, I carry his voice with me. If time would have let us, I would never have let him go. Since it didn’t, I live more fully because of him.

About the Poet
 
Theresa Williams Hudson is a contemporary poet whose work often explores love, loss, and the passing of time. Writing in free verse, she draws on intimate moments and everyday images to capture emotions that feel both deeply personal and universally resonant. Her poetry has circulated widely online, where its honesty and tenderness have found a devoted readership. “If Time Would Let Us” exemplifies her ability to distill profound truths into lyrical simplicity, reminding us that even the most fleeting connections can echo long after time has moved on.