WITHOUT HESITATION
I confess. Today I sinned. Today I decided to dissent. With consent. Today I gave a hug to a friend. He hugged me back. He rang the bell. I opened the door. We hesitated. It might have been 30sec of waiting on the doorstep. Until we decided to hug each other. A fleeting moment. Do I keep it a secret? Today I sinned, and it felt like being a human again. I remembered what a sublime thing is to hug and be hugged. 23.04.2020, Lincoln.
The day after that event of a simple hug in the midst of the pandemic, I realised that my biggest fear is how is already changing the way that we physically (and therefore emotionally-mentally) encounter the other. How far the fear to contaminate and be contaminated will compromise human relationships? It feels that already touch is strongly associated with the idea of illness, and possibly death. As a way to channel my need and desire for a spontaneous hug, a touch that feels again a safe manifestation of shared intimacy, I started drawing once a day - usually before going to sleep - an imaginary encounter with the other(s) and the self, using a black pencil, blue and red water colour. Basic lines, basic colours, and a basic need and desire: to touch and be touched...without hesitation. I will keep drawing once a day, until that day.
A body touched, touching, fragile, vulnerable, always changing, fleeing, ungraspable, evanescent under a caress or a blow, a body without a husk, a poor skin stretched over the cave where our shadow floats ‌ [“Fifty-eight Indices on the Body (Corpus), Jean-Luc Nancy, 2008].
Until I can touch you gently, again. Without hesitation . Without fear. With love With affection. With respect. ​ ntil you touch me gently again. U Without hesitation. Without fear. With love. With affection. With respect. Until we touch each other, again. Until we hug each other, again. Until we hold each other, again. Until we embrace each other, again. Until we share our weight, again. Until we feel the collision of our skin, again. Until our bodies merge together in a playful dance that lasts forever. Without fear. Without hesitation. With love. With affection. With respect. And desire. Until that moment, I shall wait, And imagine.
Words emerging from a deep cave like a monster that woke up from hibernation. Words jumping from the holes of dark dreams to sing soundless, untold secrets. Words gathered from old and new songs that are played in loop in the midst of a boring afternoon. Blended words. Smashed words. Squeezed words. Raw words. Words. Worms. Words like worms that enter under your skin. Worms, those little beasts that survive far deeper in the Earth than was ever thought possible. Worms like words, reminding us that we have remained on the surface of life. Remaining words. Superficial words. Silent words. Touching words. Words (un)able to touch. What is left to touch? What has stayed untouched? What is (not) touch? Touch is pain Touch is pleasure. Touch has the taste of jouissance. Touch reveals. Touch creates cracks through which blood escapes to heal fresh wounds. Touch is fearful. Touch is fearless. Touch is the ultimate death that celebrates life. Touch is the caress of a needle that perforates the skin of your thumb to let a drop of blue liquid to spring out. Touch is just a word. Then why don’t you touch me with a word?