Give yourself body and soul, put your soul into it, spit your soul, sweat your soul, in flesh and blood, to twist your guts, put your belly in it, it is finished in resuscitation, I have chills, it is soulless ...
Where is my soul now as I write?
I know where my body is.
Here sitting with his legs crossed, full of tension in the neck, cold hands, tired eyes, the noises around that enter the ears, the brain and the memory trying to organize the thoughts of everything I wanted to say on this page .
But my soul?
If I look for something, it struggles behind the breastbone, at the level of the solar plexus.
If I look for her, something happens in my breath, and a strange feeling of weakness assails me, as if in naming it she is absent for a moment, distracted from having been summoned, and my vital forces risked for this brief and involuntary distraction, to fail.
This makes me understand that the soul, at least mine, is certainly at home near the vital functions: the breath, the heartbeat, the flow of blood in my body.
Those places in the body that are obviously altered by the passage of more or less insignificant actions and emotions.
The small apneas of efforts, concentration, waiting, the cardiac accelerations of unexpected encounters, unexpected news, scares.
Here the soul seems to appear, altered, ready to increase to cope with what happens.
Life force that increases when needed and decreases if neglected.
We should have talked about the animated body here, open to the reflection that fascinates me so much about how much human bodies visibly or invisibly go through moments full of soul as well as empty moments of soul.
And how much all this has to do with a principle of connection, of circulation between the inside and the outside, between letting in and letting out, between doing and not doing, between driving and being carried, between the wanting and not wanting.
But I realize that I want to take a step back and return to them, body and soul, disjointed.
Try watching them separately.
ànima sf [Lat. anĭma, cognate, as anĭmus, to Gr. ἄνεμος «breath, wind»] In the most generic sense, the vital principle of man, of which it constitutes the immaterial part.
còrpo sm [Lat. cŏrpus «body, complex, organism»]. - 1. a. Generic term used to indicate any limited portion of matter [...] discontinuous set of elements to which the properties of extension, divisibility, impenetrability are attributed, [...]
So here I am already surprised to realize how much the definition of body is much more surprising and mysterious than that of soul.
Certainly it is rare to think of one's body as a discontinuous set of elements that extend in space according to a complex organization of the parts, which are divisible but impenetrable.
Think of yourself as a gaseous, rigid, astral.
Yet the way to animate is always the same.
First observe the matter, object, shadow, puppet.
Observe the human c.
And ask yourself: what is it made of? How do you breathe? How does it move? And if he loves, how does he love?
And if he is afraid how is he afraid?
Let's start from the body then, and from all that reflecting and experimenting that you will want to share on the body on stage, and then we will try to define the soul of this body and perhaps also to hypothesize the presence next to an animated body of a specular existence of corporeal soul.