3# Noting down, to start again; not slicing, expanding.
by Benedetta Ciappini ︎︎︎We have always been used to the act of sharing.
It is not that our house was so full; after all, five is not an extraordinary amount of members for an intimate community. Yet, the perimeter we inhabited, and the way we inhabited it made it arduous to separate spaces.
Therefore, we have been used to sharing. Sharing a room, sharing one couch and a shower, especially when we were little and we could fit in it all at once- back then, the notion of the limit of my skin didn’t extend beyond the longest tip of my arm’s hair.
We automatically shared toothpaste and clothes; especially me and V., since we cohabited in the same room from the first day we can trace back in our memories, to the moment w left our house to grow a bit.
We shared the same lightbulb in the same bedroom, which meant that we coordinated when the light should have been on, and when it must’ve been off; sharing light embodied common administration of our rhythm, and the harmonization of our first deep breaths while falling asleep.
Surely there was an objective division between spaces, made of walls and rooms.
Yet, we have never been used to locked doors and privacy. Our living room never saw the shadow of a door, becoming the heart of the house and the least hidden space.
When F. was navigating teenager hood, and her door would be shut, and her play-time became solitary, I didn’t take it lightly.
I barely pissed with the door closed, only when guests came- this is maybe why, in my current house, loneliness hides in every empty corner- nor did I lock the door of th bathroom while showering. Consequently, I would often be sharing that space with someone brushing their teeth, or chatting with either V. or F., while they simply sat around with nothing to do.
This is how secrets have been spilled, and how many of them have been unintentionally revealed. Like that time, when I was telling F., while washing myself, about my first kiss, ignoring the presence of M. in the bathroom. My story was supposed to reach specific and chosen ears, but the lack of obstacles to enter the room turned my private affairs into semi-public knowledge. M. didn’t pretend she was not there, and I give her credit for that. No shame in entering an open space.
We have been taught to share the attention of our parents, to share cakes, the same side of a table; to share tears, joys, and duties. Most of the shareable entities just named are no surprising nor special in any way. They have never been to us, at least.
Every being who shares a space has to, unavoidably, slice these belongings and physica perimeters, merging their existence with others.
Yet, what can be considered fascinating, are not the things that we shared, but the act of it. Co-breathing comes with an asset of hidden rules that have been indirectly taught to us, a the natural way of going about stuff.
I have been taught more profoundly about these hidden rules while studying in Ouro Branco, sitting every day next to F., our elbows touching and getting adjusted to each other, while my tongue was getting shaped by a different language and my nose tingled by new smells.
When the sharing didn’t come from the rules of blood and belonging, but from friendship and conscious choice.
Every day, F. would half her snack with me, no matter what the snack was, nor the amount, nor the actual, physical shareability of it. I would always get a part.
(Note: apart, a-part.)
I remember how one day she brought a bonbon, allowing me for a piece; what was left for both of us was a melted stain. But we ate it together, our fingers dirty and sticky.
Subsequently I started to bring more of my snacks- so that I could share a part back. And I am not only grateful to F. for making my eating experience much richer and surprising- I a grateful to F. for showing me that when you share, you do not slice, you expand.