I loved reading your writings, and the specificity of you imaginings of me. Thus far my focus in psychically connecting with you has been more on disassembling my mental constructs in order to make connection available, enlarging my tangible size, creating a beacon for you to find. Today in my practice (most likely informed by your sharing) I had a persistent image of us finding each other dancing in a huge marshy meadow, bright green from snow/ice melt, cliche/cheesy as it was, it was also very satisfying to sense you there…….
9/11: 3 words from my previous day’s writing, 3 minute free write on each, 15 min child’s pose, 30 minutes improvising with rope & floor.
Dissolve: melt leave vanish in thin air. disperse. And my life is just a concentration of energies held in this sack of skin, and this mind, so much harder to quantify. How big am I? And is dissolution an ecstatic release or a futile remorse, grief? Where do I meet something else? the else being something that I have yet not become. fade. yawn.
Prehistoric: before history. history of man. the written word. the same mysteries of pain & brutality, joy, love. The mythology of history, same archetypes grappling towards the victory of living, maybe nothing more than overcoming the grips of dissolution. my bones. my bones will turn cold before written times. Dinosaurs made homes. I will make mine with sand and the marrow of their decomposition. What animals made kingdoms in my bones?
Shake: Shiver quiver, how much force do I need? How much force have I exerted to not be shaken? Rumbling, this universe seamlessly soaring sliding through time. Have things been made through shaking, friction, the big bang? The swallowing after the shake of an earthquake scares me, and all I want is to feel held by this land.
During the childs pose I had a strong sensation of those three words working in me. Dissolving the outer layers of mybeingness, the irritation, itch, the fly landing on me, very viscerally willing my attention of that outer/current layer to melt and rest in the notion of something prehistoric, searching for what in my body might exist from before my written history. Each minute release an earthquake, a shake, inviting the rumble.
The improvising was viscous, fetal, arching into backspace, low to the ground, gestural and twisted, vining limbs like a baby with still closed eyes seeking the nipple.
9/12: 30 minutes of shaking, 30 improvising, 5 writing.
My muscles were tired today………..
I worked with the image of shrinking/retreating/disappearing habitats. The improvisational movement was contractive and explosive, lashing out and retreating…..
My writing: I am the wild, being contained. I am a mountain disappearing into sand. I am violence lashing out meeting no resistance, grasping for melted ice, trying to hold that which is no longer solid. I am a green meadow fed, watered by snow melt. I am the spring that holds the promise of winter’s freeze. I am the animal that will not, cannot be held. I am scared, defeated, triumphant and unfed. I am nature’s anger, time’s destruction, the beast & the peace, clinging, reaching for basic needs, already annihilated.