Where my country lies/4

Any social occasion, it’s hello, how do you do
All those introductions, I never miss my cue
So before a question, so before a doubt
My hand moves out and … I have the touch

Wanting contact
I’m wanting contact
I’m wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands

Pull my chin, stroke my hair, scratch my nose, hug my knees
Try drink, food, cigarette, tension will not ease
I tap my fingers, fold my arms, breathe in deep, cross my legs
Shrug my shoulders, stretch my back – but nothing seems to please….

(I have the touch, Peter Gabriel)

“Too may things around, too many things”, the fool said to the wise man approaching the dust of the dusk.

Actor and spectator as well, human and not human, your brain and your body.
You still different but almost a part as well. What’s your language now?
Can you speak having no words to be said? Your eyes, only your eyes can talk and tell and discover, no matter if noone is listening, no matter if all dancers flew away long ago with all their sparkling dresses.

Did you already get that sensation?
Did you already experience the silence in the last room of the empty building, just below the highest flat?

Where someone was living, where someone has lived, where someone spent days and weeks and blocks of existence, where someone somewhere has memory of this as a beautiful spot in a long sequence of hours organized as days, organized as weeks, collected together to have months in the year?

Is the time only a sequence?
Is the time only an organization? Is there any parallelism or jump or shutcut to be searched for?
Can we cut away a part of it and loose nothing but the unwanted?
Can we rebuild the past, rearranging small pieces of joy into a different puzzle simply stratching and squeezing and zipping each single chunk?