Thursday, September 29, 2011
Body Language
Writing again, after taking such a long hiatus, is definitely not like riding a bike; I find myself forgetting the littlest of details, losing track of my organization and flow, developing writer's block by the first sentence, and basically forgetting what I even write like. Anyway, seeing as how I pushed for this month's theme and have yet to write a post for it, I'll try to make amends here. I actually find it curious that I chose this theme at all, as I'm not particularly fond of my own body, to say the least; its limitations frustrate me, my imperfections depress me, the notion that my figure is somehow enmeshed with my projected womanhood confounds me, etc. This is perhaps why it's been an especially difficult topic for me to write about. Since I'm not ready to go full throttle here in terms of my own body image neuroses, I'll instead use one of my favorite mediums of artistic expression to illustrate what I find fascinating about how we, as sentient beings, relate to our bodies on more than just a functional level.
This first poem is by William Carlos Williams, titled, "Dance Russe":
If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,-
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely,
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,-
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
I love this poem because I so aspire to feel this particular feeling of complete and utter contentedness with my own physique, alone, independent from the gaze of others, away from the presence of any other bodies. I wonder how many out there actually feel as Mr. Williams does-- see their physiques as something that defines their individuality, something to celebrate and rejoice in, something that can happily exist as a "lonely" entity. I find this most interesting to me, as I seem to feel the most disconnected from my own form when I am left alone with it. In these moments, the negative narrator in my mind pipes up, speaks a little louder than usual, persuading me to crucify myself for not being aesthetically "better."
The second poem I'd like to share is one of my favorite poems written by one of my favorite poets, EE Cummings, titled, "i like my body when it is with your" :
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
So, interestingly and opposingly enough, I relate very much to this particular poem. Though I may not like my body when it is with me and only me, I seem to appreciate it in a starkly different way when it is with the body of someone I care for. I see it in a new light (mostly from the adoring perspective of another), and in relation to another body-- how it interacts, how it is attracted to another's form, the things it does for and with this other body. It's a very uniquely specific feeling, connecting your body with another body, as though you are the only person in the world to experience it (though almost all humans, and certainly some various types of other animals definitely experience this very physical phenomenom).
I understand the relationship between the body and the brain; I'm aware of the fact that our cognitive processes dictate our corporeal senses. And still, I am able to see the majesty of the human body-- amidst the seven billion of us out there, there has never been and will never be another Bethany Dawson. My body will never be duplicated (please do not go into a cloning debate), and my brain's perceptions will never be perceived within the confines of another's shell. This idea pleases me, and reminds me that the body is still a thing of mystery and magic in many ways, even though neurologists would have us feeling foolish for thinking much of this exterior vessel.
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I love these poems. Makes me miss English and Poetry classes. There is indeed something amazing about feeling that free in your own skin to dance and sing naked in front of a mirror alone and happy. And physical contact between your own body and someone's who you care about is somewhat transcendent of the physical form because it actively reaffirms physical existence (again, even if it is the mind's interpretation of all this - and yes, this mind is part of something physical, the actual brain tissue, but I feel like a disclaimer could be placed on this theme so that we can talk about the non-brain parts of the body for what they are.. or appear to be). I love "electric fur".
ReplyDeleteI love thinking of poems/songs/works of art etc that use the body as its basis for content and references. It's certainly always easy to relate to. I honestly can't say I've ever danced and sung naked in front of a mirror, so I might need to do that first before commenting on the lonely happiness it brings one. And yes, I too believe that engaging in romantic physical contact does something extraordinary to reaffirm physical existence. Also, "electric fur" gets me every damn time...
ReplyDeleteMaybe I'm too cynical, but I can never relate to these kind of naked-old-man-and-proud-of-it poems, kinda like Walt Whitman's (vaguely homosexual) poetry. Perhaps that is just my own insecurity speaking, that I find the idea of a poet trying to be so "unlike" the rest of society that they always try to brag so much about their own limitations as a way of being confident. I don't know. I just can never buy it. I suppose at the end of the day I'm just not a sentimental person, like I know both you and Daniel are. I am in some ways, but not in others. I definitely think this says quite a bit about me, and how uncomfortable I am with many things, but oh well.
ReplyDeleteI can agree with the aspect of the Williams poem in that I do feel a strong sense of self even when I'm alone. However this has nothing to do with my body, but it has to do with my mind and personality. I am different than him in that I am not satisfied with my body, or even how intelligent or wise my mind is, but I am truly satisfied with my sense of SELF, which somehow is stronger then those things. So even though I want to improve my mind and my body, I do feel at ease being "lonely," I believe I was born lonely, and I honestly do believe that I have the ability (although I have the ability to do this with others too, and this is something I clearly need to work on more) to be at my best when lonely.
The e.e. cummings poem is great, and it provides some interesting commentary on the idea of the body, since for many there truly is quite a different feeling when experiencing one's body in unison with another through the acts of intimacy. For me, I suppose I experience my body different when with another's, but it's not the case that I necessarily like it anymore then I do when I'm alone.
One thing that does annoy me about my own body, and I don't think I have enough to say about the subject to warrant writing an entire post about it, is just the sad fact that every year I seem to be growing more out of shape. I am working on this, but still, I miss the days when Daniel and I used to jump around everywhere, and it felt like I could do everything. Jumping is the one act I like most that can be done with the physical body. You would think as a former/semi-current runner I would say running, but no, let's face it, running sucks (especially distance running). Jumping is the shit.
It is interesting, Bethany, that you brought up the idea that your body somehow shows your perceived womanhood. I thought this was weird too, until I realized that the only reason you are considered a woman and me a man is that our bodies are different. Really even though we have individual personalities, you, me, and everyone else reading this, whatever their gender, feels a lot of the same things, and we would feel even more of the same things if our society didn't separate the experiences and perceived expectations of the two different sexes so much. So really, your body does display your womanhood, because if it wasn't uniquely female, you would be just a human--neither a man nor woman.