New choreography. In double the time. Immediately my breath picks up. I am flying up and down and around. It is loud. A chair slams on the ground. My arms are moving so quickly that when I go to place them on the floor, my elbows strike a blow as if the floor should not have been there. "Victim. Perpetrator. Bystander." I still don't know how to say that line. How to say trauma has been absorbed, trauma has been doled out, trauma has been witnessed. Rolling over my body to an upright position I prepare myself for sanity.
100 93 86 79 72 65 58 51 44 37 30 23 16 9 2
But my breath says I am anything but.
"Again," Melody says.
"Here I am and there is my body."
I charge towards the chair and leap. I am no longer looking. I hold a singular desire to fuse with myself. Have I forgotten I am in choreography? I miss the center of the chair, stalling on two legs in the air, at the highest point, I was falling. Slowly, very slowly.
"I am falling."
The cold, hard metal lip of the chair catches the underside of my thigh. From four feet up, I fall straight on my back.
Laughter. Silence. The breath surprisingly still intact. I watch Melody unhinge the cage and peel back the chain link to get to me.
"Lay there. Stay there."
Now it is morning. It hurts to sit. It is a reminder of the revelation that occurred to me while falling.
An abrasion the width of my leg, a bruise beautiful and unintended, asks me why we are so resistant to a reality of our existence: pain. Pain: evidence of our existence. Pain: proof that we are alive. An invitation to feel deeply. But so often we reject pain in the attempt to be comfortable. But when are we ever?
To throw oneself, fully committed into something is the greatest gift we could give ourselves. Stubbed toes and bruises heal. Also things far more damaging. I know this because I have accumulated traumas to the body, the mind and the spirit, like all of us, and I have watched them scar, scab, pus, shape, attack, bend, break, restore. Not everything restores back to original form.
The only way to see what it shall become is to move through time. Time is needed for healing. One thing I've learned in this life, it is that we are not guaranteed that we will ever have the time that makes the healing so. It is not promised. But in these moments of rise and fall, of peak and valley, we can feel our breath, the speaker of our spirit, and our bodies, the cages of our souls, responding to the world around us in an immediate and visceral way.
Is this masochistic? Perhaps. But it is true. Every time I've ever fallen, up to this moment, I have resisted saying, "Don't fall don't fall don't fall NO I'm falling." Yesterday was the first time that I fell with the pure and innocent realization, "I am falling. There is nothing for me to control. Only something to embrace."
As I embrace this beautiful, fleeting pain - the sore tendon on my right hand from closing and opening a human chain link cage a few times a day, abrasions on my arms from asking "How have you inspired this pain?", the tender spot on my spine from rolling my vertebrae on the ground, the bruise from a chair digging into my thigh, the bruise on my foot from playing the rhythm of madness on wood, the bruise on my side from trying to figure out how the fuck to effectively fall on purposed accident, the bruises I cannot explain but discover in the shower - I find that the body is made to heal these small trespasses quickly. I could wallow in their reality or embrace that they are there and use them to inform my next movement. I am obviously advocating for the latter.
I am pleased to know I am fully alive. I am open to fall because that happens sometimes and
everything happens in accident time
where there are no accidents
The senses are dead. Something about my work goes here.