2 RECIPROCATEPosted: October 8, 2011
a poetic expression of our sensual primary technology
It is not until I reach out and touch you, with your permission, that I begin to understand.
It is not until I hold you in my hands and caress you, begin to manipulate you with my fingers, smell you, taste you and look at you very closely, as you return my gaze; or talk with you face to face, breath to breath, feeling the vibration of your voice, the inclination of your smile, the sparkle of your eyes, the language of your body; until I break you or mould you, bend you and pull you and tie and weave you, and play with you; get you wet, get you hot and burn you that I really start to get to know you, appreciate your substance, your energy, your intrinsic memory, your function, your relevance and becoming in relation to mine.
Who you are, what you are called, what you are made of, more empirically, is not so important, although it is always of interest. That is not your ‘nature’, your response, your responsibility, your being or your observation.
No matter how many books I might read, instructions I painstakingly follow, lessons I attend or how many times I see you or pass you on the path, I still do not really know you until I hold you in my hands. What I read or see solely with my eyes is merely a gesture of you, a nod in your direction, never a full acknowledgement of your wholeness or potential or your place here.
Then I can make you into one thing, or leave you as you are, while you can make me into another –
And then I really start to wonder what you might suggest…