Free My Body in Nine Parts by Raymond Federman Page A

all my senses to profit from the delight of the flower. But it’s my hand especially that profits the most.
    In another situation, let’s say in a clothing store. Not only do I look at the piece of clothing I would like to acquire, but I touch it. I feel the fabric. I rub it against my face to see if it itches. I put it against my body to see if it fits me.
    Of course, if I see a beautiful woman, let’s say seated in an armchair at some festive soirée . She does not see me looking at her. She’s sipping a glass of champagne while watching the couples dance. She’s very beautiful. Superb well-rounded breasts tucked in a low-necked blouse. Splendid thighs. Well the one I admire crossed over the other outside the mini skirt. I look. I appreciate. And unconsciously I feel the urge to touch. To caress. To fondle …
    Well, you see the importance of touching in social and private situations.
    Let’s take for instance a private moment. I am shaving. I am naked in front the large mirror in my bathroom. I am looking at my nose while shaving. Immediately my hand reaches for the tip of my nose, twists it slightly to one side so that the razor can shave closely underneath.
    Or else, if in the large mirror I see my phallus and I say to myself, oh how insignificant and pathetic it looks today. And so, instinctively I take in my free hand, and …
    Or if on the contrary, that day, my phallus is fully developed and vibrant, without thinking of the consequences, I grab it with my free hand, and …
    Or if in a darkened room, my eyes cannot assist, then it is my hands that grope and caress the wondrous body lying beneath me. My hands take over the functions of my eyes in these intimate explorations.
    One could give many such examples of the association between eyes and hands. Free association. But I shall let your imagination and your own personal experiences determine the close rapport of your eyes with your hands as I end this little meditation on the sense of touch.
    As for me, let’s just say that I like to touch. I am a toucheur , if I may coin a word, as well as a voyeur. Voyeur, in the positive sense of the term. I like to touch what I see, and see what I touch. Often I am not even responsible for what my hands are grasping. They seem to act independently.
    To give you an example. The other day on my way to the library I saw something shining on the other side of the street. Something small and shiny on the ground. The street was crowded but no one stopped to look at it, to pick it up and find out what it may be. So I crossed the street, even though it was out of my way. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that the moment I saw this shining thing I had to touch it. Well, you want to know what it was? The wrapper of a piece of chewing gum that someone had rolled into a ball. A shiny little ball of silver paper. I picked it up. Examined it. Rolled it in my fingers, and then threw it back on the ground. It was a useless object, but I had to touch it. That illustrates how sometimes my eyes lead my hands to ridiculous actions.

 
MY SCARS

    Do you know why people are afraid to look at their scars, and even more so to touch them? Because it is the place on the body where the soul struggled to escape but was forced back in and the flesh tightly sewn.
    I know this is so because I have many scars on my body. My soul often tried to desert me. To go elsewhere. But I am not afraid to look at my scars, and sometimes in the dark I furtively pass my fingers over them. Especially at night when I cannot sleep. Each scar tells me her story, and that lulls me to sleep.
    All my scars have a story to tell. I have nine of them, but there are four that I favor especially. These four scars mark a traumatic moment of my life. And I often remember how they happened.
    Everybody has scars. Most scars happen when you are young. Young, foolish & clumsy. Imprudent with your body and bursting with conceit, you imagine that it