Soft tissues slump, layer on layer under layer, draping like hot rubber and fabric. There’s a buoyancy but there’s a delicacy, a bony, thread like quality where the energy is low and the ground does all the work as you sink. It can be slow and sustained or it can be direct and abrupt but the quality remains intact and implicit in the image and explicit in the body. Lose. And structured. Play with the arms to meet/in meeting the vertex of the movement.
Energy, curling and carving. From the centre, pivot, spinning, not spiralling – need a direction. Limbs float behind aside the central axis.
Your femur glides and rolls lulling in the shallow of your humeroscapular joint, like an open palm like a porcelain plate, a wet dish, your humerus is centred, free, floating, touching the heavens, your long bony finger tips, porous and thirsty touch the sky. There is a powerful electricity in the centre of your softest marrow where the blood grows. The image of gushing, a torrent of blood, washing inside your arms down to your neck and back into the back surfaces of your upper ribs makes you quake and perhaps you fall or you leap in an attempt to send blood and electricity back to your finger tips.
The skull floats like an evil spectre, a ghost, hollow and translucent, and it sees you, seeing you with every cell in my cranium, it’s got you now. It’s erect and it’s poised for only God knows what. Everything is balanced. The cervical vertebrae are like drones with a hive mind, tentacular synapses are firing their electrical signals. Unified the vertebra are humming. The potential energy is infinite. How terrifying a well oiled machine I am, like my own muscles recede away from me and unfurl, so I can strike one vertebra at a time, exponentially. Softly fused liquid fissures.