January 18th, 2008 Fred McVittie
You are standing at the centre of a space and at the centre of a pool of light. The light is all around you and may even be inside of you. You may even be the source of that light. Because of the light and the space you are able to ’see’ objects which are within that pool of light, although they cannot be too far away. Beyond a certain distance they grow indistinct, shadowy, and vague. At some remove, within a certain proscribed range, these objects are clearly visible, not only to yourself, but also to others who are near you in this illuminated space.
Should this object pose any kind of threat, because of the distance and the space between yourself and this object of sight you are in no immediate danger. The sight of it may suggest a threat in the future or may be a precursor for some other kind of reaction but this sight alone cannot harm you. No-one ever died from just looking at something. Similarly, the object cannot profit you just by its being simply visible. At that distance you cannot eat it, drink it, have sex with it, shelter under it, wrap yourself in it to keep warm, or use it as tool of any kind. It’s existence may be interesting or informative but it can not be life-preserving. There is therefore no urgency about the object; no life or death decision rests on its precise identification or the appropriateness of its naming. The object is perennially ‘over there’ in the communal space beyond the touch of a hand and the press of skin.
This is not a static space however. Objects can move and we ourselves can also move and as we do so the proximity we might have to objects changes. And with those changes in relative location come other changes in relationship, in salience, and in sensory availability. As we approach the object it moves from being removed to being within our grasp, and we might make use of this availability and place our hands around the object. Here it is man-handled and its affordances are measured against our grip, a larger object may give its weight to our hands and arms and be difficult to embrace and even harder to move. It is now up close and personal, and we would be advised to pay closer and more personal attention to its properties and its motives. It may fall and crush us; it may poison us on contact; we may be eaten alive or pushed over the edge of a cliff. This is the distance at which accidents happen and that which we can touch is not something we can be blase about. If we can touch it then it may touch us, possibly in ways which are unwelcome and life-threatening. Alternatively it may respond to the touch of our outstretched fingers with the softness of a lover’s cheek, thrilling us to the core and drawing us closer. It may, at this distance, release perfume at our touch; the tang of orange and the heavy scent of musk, and again we would be foolish to ignore these tender pleadings. Instead of being dangerous there is the promise of rapture. Whether attractive or repulsive, the source of pain or delight, at the range of touch these objects become significant in a way which is ours and ours alone. No onlooker is offered these promises and threats; there is no sharing of this proximal and intimate space and only by standing on these shoes, at this exact spot in the centre of space and light, and only by being this close to the object can this exact experience be obtained. The salience of the moment is mine and mine alone.
Inside the orbit of our arms the object is not only within our grasp but also beyond our last defence. Any opportunity we may have had to ward of this entity is gone; the blow of an enemy, the unwanted sexual advances of an undesirable fellow human, the slings and arrows of fortune both outrageous and exhilarating, and impact with the body is certain. The space between the object and ourselves is now completely elided and there is only the darkness of direct contact. It is here, at the level of the skin, that all of the drama of human being takes place. Any entity which cannot protect its boundaries from invasion and intrusion is dead in the water. Any being which resists merging with the objects of nourishment and reproduction is similarly stultified. All life is here, and this surface, this superficial envelope should be a major focus of attention and care. What touches, what goes in, what comes out, is a matter of life and death and is not the subject of inconsequential, interpersonal, rarified, distanced debate. In fact there can be no debate; no matter where you stand and however well lit you are you cannot feel these blows and penetrations. They are mine and only mine.
Some of this contact, this pressing, is strong and shakes my balance, moving me away and relocating the centre of myself, my space, my light. Other contacts are more to the point and puncture the skin with surgical precision. Still others both consume and are consumed, passing behind the boundary and making contact with inner spaces and inner sense. Once inside I can feel these objects, if I can feel them at all, only with my gut and the with my heart. They may have a taste which is salty or sweet, and they may weigh heavily inside me. These entities have become entirely secret and no other person can truly know of their existence at all. Even I myself may lose touch with them in the space inside. They are not clearly bounded and seem to merge with the internals of my own body so that I no longer can be sure where I end and they begin. In fact I may start to wonder if I am in total no more than a collection of interior objects, forgotten and assimilated, like the fruit I ate last month which is now transformed into skin cells, but which nevertheless feels like my skin, and the milk I drank as a child long ago became bone and is now far away in the shells of sea creatures; my bones, my self. Internal space, dazzlingly dark
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