May 2015
I)
They tell you that when you fall
it hurts less if you go limp before hitting the ground
release all that muscular tension
go spaghetti noodle loose
when you collide
no part of you will bear the full brunt of your error
I’m great at this
at risk of bragging, I would say I'm an expert
II)
You see, I liked to climb as a child. There was something cat – like inside of me that felt safe up high, safe where no one would follow. The solitude kept me oh so vertically inclined. But that wasn't my favorite feeling.
At age 10, I decided I would learn to skateboard. Despite my mother's pleas, I returned day after day to my concrete proving grounds, eager to catch something. At first it did not flee quickly, it wanted me hooked and oh my god, I was. The more I learned, the faster I had to move to catch it, the more the wind became my adversary and the simple act of pushing off the hard ground made me feel. The feeling itself was my coach, my carrot on a stick, and my reward all in one. But that wasn’t my favorite feeling.
In high school, I joined the gymnastics team. I found my peace in the moment of apex, the height of the swing, whole body poised, ready to go around one more time. The only time in my life I’ve ever felt so shaped by fear, pressure, and pride. That still was not my favorite feeling.
My favorite feeling was the moment the branch cracked underneath me. The moment those hard little rubber wheels skrtchd so loudly. When the floor didn’t pop quite right, or when the bar would wah-wah-wah-wah in protest as my grips pulled away. These warning shouts, alerting the subject that in a few moments, they would be in one of two states:
1a) folded like a pretzel, limbs aching, squirrel entertainment
1b) spread across the pavement, butter on toast
1c) a broken model, still clutching his 'control'
Alternatively:
2a) laying in the damp grass, with nature
2b) dizzy from rolling, exhilarated, mind on the 'next try'
2c) finding comfort in the thin mats, wondering about their sanitation
That moment is a prompt, a call to action. Most cant hear it, but the pop, the wah-wah, the crack and the skrtch all whisper beneath their warning the same message. “Go limp”, they coo, “let go, give it up. Release.” And that moment, where my control is imagined anyways, is where I find my favorite feeling. It is sinking slowly into warm, thick waters. It is flopping onto the sofa after a long day. It is being embraced by someone you love when you really just want to cry.
III)
At college I met this girl. I'll spare you the details, but I want you to consider something. Have you ever tried to carry someone who really, really did not want to be lifted? I fell that hard, I went that limp, no matter how I hit the ground, I knew into something beautiful I would bounce.
IV)
I've spent months in mourning, no, I've spent months in a thick morning fog, no, I've spent months feeling nothing but numb each morning. I've spent months letting all day be a morning in bed, I've spent months in morning.
I'm great at this, at the risk of bragging I would say I’m an expert.
It still feels like sinking, flopping, needing to cry, unadorned.
Here is to my last lasting hope, that something is made of the words that bubble to the surface.
They tell you that when you fall
it hurts less if you go limp before hitting the ground
release all that muscular tension
go spaghetti noodle loose
when you collide
no part of you will bear the full brunt of your error
I’m great at this
at risk of bragging, I would say I'm an expert
II)
You see, I liked to climb as a child. There was something cat – like inside of me that felt safe up high, safe where no one would follow. The solitude kept me oh so vertically inclined. But that wasn't my favorite feeling.
At age 10, I decided I would learn to skateboard. Despite my mother's pleas, I returned day after day to my concrete proving grounds, eager to catch something. At first it did not flee quickly, it wanted me hooked and oh my god, I was. The more I learned, the faster I had to move to catch it, the more the wind became my adversary and the simple act of pushing off the hard ground made me feel. The feeling itself was my coach, my carrot on a stick, and my reward all in one. But that wasn’t my favorite feeling.
In high school, I joined the gymnastics team. I found my peace in the moment of apex, the height of the swing, whole body poised, ready to go around one more time. The only time in my life I’ve ever felt so shaped by fear, pressure, and pride. That still was not my favorite feeling.
My favorite feeling was the moment the branch cracked underneath me. The moment those hard little rubber wheels skrtchd so loudly. When the floor didn’t pop quite right, or when the bar would wah-wah-wah-wah in protest as my grips pulled away. These warning shouts, alerting the subject that in a few moments, they would be in one of two states:
1a) folded like a pretzel, limbs aching, squirrel entertainment
1b) spread across the pavement, butter on toast
1c) a broken model, still clutching his 'control'
Alternatively:
2a) laying in the damp grass, with nature
2b) dizzy from rolling, exhilarated, mind on the 'next try'
2c) finding comfort in the thin mats, wondering about their sanitation
That moment is a prompt, a call to action. Most cant hear it, but the pop, the wah-wah, the crack and the skrtch all whisper beneath their warning the same message. “Go limp”, they coo, “let go, give it up. Release.” And that moment, where my control is imagined anyways, is where I find my favorite feeling. It is sinking slowly into warm, thick waters. It is flopping onto the sofa after a long day. It is being embraced by someone you love when you really just want to cry.
III)
At college I met this girl. I'll spare you the details, but I want you to consider something. Have you ever tried to carry someone who really, really did not want to be lifted? I fell that hard, I went that limp, no matter how I hit the ground, I knew into something beautiful I would bounce.
IV)
I've spent months in mourning, no, I've spent months in a thick morning fog, no, I've spent months feeling nothing but numb each morning. I've spent months letting all day be a morning in bed, I've spent months in morning.
I'm great at this, at the risk of bragging I would say I’m an expert.
It still feels like sinking, flopping, needing to cry, unadorned.
Here is to my last lasting hope, that something is made of the words that bubble to the surface.
