About 'art' or something like it
Prompt 618 at all_unwritten
~ art ~
How untrained the sense of touch can be. How free of skill and general knowledge.And how strange and earie even the texture of the wallpaper under your fingertips, so much more so the bark of a tree, grass, the hair of a fellow human being. A revelation, as if, the first thing ever felt. Spiky or flowing. Somewhat always soft.
How miserable to watch your hands glide so useless over planes of body. Helpless at the concept of sensation. So removed from your mind that your head might not be part of your own body just as well.
It’s not like clay or humid sand, with your friend chuckling at your shoulder, drops from her wet hair sprinkling your skin. ‘Her boobs are too big.’ And you smirk saying ‘I like it like that’. ‘Gorgeous. You must take a picture of this’.
And some little boy asking his dad a few feet away what you’re doing. And the man saying something about sculpturing and mermaid and ‘she must really love this’ to the woman next to him. English on a French beach, it crosses your mind. And you think that’s funny, what he says is funny. How ridiculous you must look to some bystander - jeans soaked, soiled with sand - straddling a naked siren.
But your hands know what they’re doing. You can close your eyes and you know the map of the body beneath you. It’s just that you can’t close your eyes, it’s too fascinating watching the shape form and reform under your palms - her arms languidly above her head, face watching you curiously - the sand never staying for too long, drying much too fast. It doesn’t matter. The prickling in your fingers and palms matters, where they have stroked over the rough cold sand for too long, it seems. The raw heaviness and chill of your jeans clinging to your skin matters. It doesn’t matter that you can feel the sea coming closer and soon your siren’s tail will turn into meerschaum and tiny particles of her might reach God knows what coast. The latter matters in an odd way. Miniscule grains of sand that once were part of something you had given a human shape.
And it may be that this was the only thing of importance your hands have ever created.
~ art ~
How untrained the sense of touch can be. How free of skill and general knowledge.And how strange and earie even the texture of the wallpaper under your fingertips, so much more so the bark of a tree, grass, the hair of a fellow human being. A revelation, as if, the first thing ever felt. Spiky or flowing. Somewhat always soft.
How miserable to watch your hands glide so useless over planes of body. Helpless at the concept of sensation. So removed from your mind that your head might not be part of your own body just as well.
It’s not like clay or humid sand, with your friend chuckling at your shoulder, drops from her wet hair sprinkling your skin. ‘Her boobs are too big.’ And you smirk saying ‘I like it like that’. ‘Gorgeous. You must take a picture of this’.
And some little boy asking his dad a few feet away what you’re doing. And the man saying something about sculpturing and mermaid and ‘she must really love this’ to the woman next to him. English on a French beach, it crosses your mind. And you think that’s funny, what he says is funny. How ridiculous you must look to some bystander - jeans soaked, soiled with sand - straddling a naked siren.
But your hands know what they’re doing. You can close your eyes and you know the map of the body beneath you. It’s just that you can’t close your eyes, it’s too fascinating watching the shape form and reform under your palms - her arms languidly above her head, face watching you curiously - the sand never staying for too long, drying much too fast. It doesn’t matter. The prickling in your fingers and palms matters, where they have stroked over the rough cold sand for too long, it seems. The raw heaviness and chill of your jeans clinging to your skin matters. It doesn’t matter that you can feel the sea coming closer and soon your siren’s tail will turn into meerschaum and tiny particles of her might reach God knows what coast. The latter matters in an odd way. Miniscule grains of sand that once were part of something you had given a human shape.
And it may be that this was the only thing of importance your hands have ever created.