Stefan loves his body
Die einzelnen Posts haben am Anfang eine Nummerierung ("Erstens . . ."),
das zeigt die Reihenfolge der Erlebnisse.
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Boys and Girls – 5 a.m. . . .
. . . the pump of the central heating jumps on – well, a real german way of expressing what happened but it fits to the sudden rumbling in the iron pipes in the house distributing the welcomed warmth produced in the basement. Waking me up and somehow reminding me of a very old feeling in my body, in childhood: the love to my body, I love my body. Caressing it, maintaining it with oils and cremes, looking at the knees and the hands, dancing in long dresses like a fairy, enjoying the warmth and gentle touching of the bed cover, sleeping . . . sleeping is the greatest joy! Enjoying the skill of the limbs.
Usually, as a boy in those martial times at the end of the war, I wear boy clothes, a thick leather military belt with a thick buckle, „for God and fatherland“, pockets in the short trousers filled with knife and stones and rare findings. But that was not what I really liked, not bad but not perfectly fitting to my taste. Girls´ clothes are nicer, and more enjoyable. Somebody who knows my feelings gave me a beautiful night gown, down to the feet, and with a fine picture of Alice in Wonderland on the back. Of course it is far too small since many years, but still I have it and enjoy the picture when feeling a longing for beauty and softness.
While standing in front of Lewis Carroll´s house -
Alice flies through my fantasies
Here is a copy of Alice for you. May be you can also enjoy the body-love-feeling as I did and do. You see that Alice wore long stockings, and that was the beginning of my life-long longings. But in general, times were not fulfilling my desires. I wore Alice with her lovly attire on my back and was only afraid that through use and washing the gown may fade and be torn. So I seldom wore it in bed but hung it on a hanger on a nail in the wall, only when the longing for my love was overwhelming I wore it and felt very close to this girl. I did not even know the story . . . but well it was my love, I did not tell others about it, only an old aunt in whose clothes I saw her love for her body. And it was she who gave me the gown.
Now she is dead since long, as I am also very old and live from my old memories and remembrances. These stories fill my sighs and sights and nights and may accompany me deep into my death. Those youth years were so fine in my remembrance, they were the basis to all my personal characters, the sensitive parts of my character. I was so happy that war times did not hurt me very much – in contrast to most other european children in those years. Most of them may still suffer in their soul from the cruelties of fate. And I hope that stories like these may help them to find a small path through the confusions in their soul. My story is not in all aspects factually true but it expresses my feelings in those wild years.
In the morning when I woke up and had washed my body – this washing was a wonderful almost daily experience – with a finger I massaged my skin very slightly. That was the beginning of my day, and it somehow caressed the day and sanctified it. In most days however it remained a dream, a deep, deep inner dream, only seldom told to my aunt under tears. In school when my soul got scratched by the hardness of life I withdrew into those dreams, to the dismay of my teachers who loved my tenderness but could not work with it in classwork.
The best and least self-hurting was to hide into myself like a wren into his nest and look shyly out to controll things around me without interfering . . .
My body sensitivity, body love was perhaps the basis for my deep love experiences in my life. Still is.
While I am writing this I listen to Beethoven´s Violin Concerto played by Great Master Yehudi Menuhin, and it creates tears again. And I remember my legs. They always were the centre of my love, since I was a boy. Mostly the knees, and they were so beautifull! And I had almost to loose them when I was 20. When a Polio-attack paralised and lamed my legs (and other parts of my body). They still are there, but no longer real tools for walking and jumping and running and dancing and climbing.
During many following years I succeeded to do my life to some extent, but some beauty was lost. So I created another, new beauty: I finally clad my legs in colourful long stockings. And wear skirts in scottish and irish tartans and enjoy this feeling deeply – more than I enjoyed it as a child when long stockings were common for children – though not in such beautiful colours.
my old and adorned legs
Nice children grew up in our family, a nice wife helped my life. And one thing supported me most throughout the whole life: the love to my body. It was no longer beautiful, but I developed an inner viewing into all inner directions, looked at this and that point from inside and addressed the organs: „how carefully you do your precious work!“ – „please take care not to overstress your strength and energy resources,“ – „I´m so thankful that you still work since so many years in spite of many services I expect from you.“ Who knows how I would have handled all this without my love?
A few pictures to explain my feelings as a child are here:
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hey Frances - did you see this?
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