"this is unsurprising, little voice. your first language, after all, was touch.
there was nothing primitive about this leixcon of gesture, and nothing that we say now that could not be said in the endless fluttering of wrists and palms; of the fine bones of the fingers and the soft flex of the thumb. it was.
these gestures were complex and subtle. they involved a delicacy of motion and deliberate intention that has since, perhaps, been lost."
Like Peter Gabriel once exclaimed, "I have the touch". John Lennon also opined "Love is real, love is touch".
a few of my family members do not approve of affectionate gestures like embracing in hugs or the occasional shoulder tap. i feel like i am the one who is awkward now. Bodies are meant to be celebrated. i live with people who do not respond positivity to my curious nature of Touch.
"this is unsurprising, little voice. your first language, after all, was touch.
there was nothing primitive about this leixcon of gesture, and nothing that we say now that could not be said in the endless fluttering of wrists and palms; of the fine bones of the fingers and the soft flex of the thumb. it was.
these gestures were complex and subtle. they involved a delicacy of motion and deliberate intention that has since, perhaps, been lost."
The truest of words.
thank you, dear Nadia. I hope the season is treating you sweetly <3
Like Peter Gabriel once exclaimed, "I have the touch". John Lennon also opined "Love is real, love is touch".
a few of my family members do not approve of affectionate gestures like embracing in hugs or the occasional shoulder tap. i feel like i am the one who is awkward now. Bodies are meant to be celebrated. i live with people who do not respond positivity to my curious nature of Touch.
I am sorry that your family have made you feel strange, little voice.
keep singing the body electric.
'may the arms of those you love ungirth you, and you them.'
after all: what is the body if not the soul, and the soul the body?
perhaps that is why your Words touch, when the hands cannot.
her death
a year ago this month
and the small white room
reserved—
its barrenness, isolation
beyond the pulse
of IVs, monitors, struggle—
except for me
suddenly alone
wanting to leave
wanting to touch.
so beautiful; so strange, so sore. such longing. i hope your outstretched arms are met, little voice.
Thank you.