Touch - Phase 2
The weeks drag by, the days fly by. Exhaustion is setting in and it is hard to combat. Last week the U.S. erupted in protests and outcries for #BlackLivesMatter with the murder of another black man by a white police officer. The creative process for 'Touch' was interrupted. Richard is protesting in London. I am doing my part here to add my voice.
Richard tasked me with videotaping the dance again with close ups and another angle. It seemed like an easy enough task but has proven otherwise. I asked my son, Alex, to video me. He tries his best. The iPhone does only so much and he is challenged to get close enough to me. I decide to video myself standing in front of the camera. I don't really move from my spot. The dance becomes a dance of the hands, the eyes, the feel of my own hair. What will it feel like to hold someone's hand again? What will it feel like to be embraced as a woman? My son used to play with my hair when he was younger. Someone once told me he should "stop that or people will think he is strange." That comment upset me so much. It is his way. Richard likes to brush women's hair. He admitted he was always "chucked in with the girls backstage" so that was that.
This is just another phase in this long process of quarantined waiting. The video I upload to Vimeo for Richard to use is unedited. It is telling. Circles under the eyes, a little more weight lost. Exasperation. Almost desperation. Glimmers of softness and good memories. It is hard to pull the good out of the memory bank. My brain is overloaded, spent. My close friend Susan shares with me this is so common right now. Some of us can barely think straight. The words evaporate. We take days off with no where to go.
I walk not through town but around town. I abhor wearing the mask and only do so when necessary - going into a store or place of business. Some people drive around in their cars with the mask on and it irritates me to no end. What is the point? I digress.
Back on subject. What of 'touch?' The studies are coming out as I knew they would. There was even an article on "How to Hug During Quarantine." I read some of it. The article included a story how two six year olds - friends - burst into tears when they were finally allowed to hug again. The mother was surprised. Really? We are human. We touch. We learn through touch. Tactile. Fingers tell us so much. Coarse hair feels different than soft hair. What does that say if you close your eyes? Can you tell who that person is or maybe where they came from? My arm skin feels different then my lips, then my feet, then my breasts. Oh yes I used that word!!!. Breasts on a woman are soft. No wonder men like them (note to reader I am fully aware that I have not had this conversation with a gay man so I do not speak on their behalf.) If you were breast fed then that tells your lips something else too then doesn't it?
Richard has emailed that he has begun his response to my choreography. I haven't a clue, really, what he will come up with, his choices. I know what he is like as a dancer, a mover, a human. His dancing has changed and matured in these past two years since I met him back at the beginning of 2018. More depth, more efficiency, more clarity. Stronger. Braver. More vulnerable.
Moment to pause, walk away. My butt hurts. I have been sitting too long.
This is ridiculous. It really is. I have nothing more to say today. I need a f*&kng hug.