Friday, February 15, 2013

escher's ballroom


I.

When I first started paragliding, I fantasized constantly about what it would be like to be able to see the wind -- to see thermals and heat signatures and ridge lift and venturis and rotors clearly defined, etched out against the landscape like a living ice sculpture, flirtatiously obvious and beckoning.

The wind tunnel has invited that same fantasy to set up residence in my musings. As I watch others fly, I imagine a ghostly watercolor of wind twisting around them.

II.

Scooting out into the middle of the tunnel for rookie head-down coaching feels a bit like offering oneself up for execution: you shuffle to the center of the glassed-in space, hands clasped to the sternum, and drop to your knees at the feet of your coach. Once there, kneeling before a crowd of eyes, you slide your hands to grasp the wires beneath you and fold into a reverent-seeming bow. The trick is to slide your head down with the quick smoothness of a practiced penitent, lest you let the wind find your chest and throw you wildly akimbo. The first few times I did it, it seemed pageantish and ridiculous. Now, it's utterly normal.

My head anchored firmly beneath me, I let the wind capture my legs and invert my body. I feel my hair licking my neck with the undulating insistence of a flame; feel my coach's hand between the very end of my gloved fingers, as though he's pulling me to the dance floor of a baroque ballroom.

I used to stay there for a while, letting myself overthink it. I would stare into my coach's chest in a wonky-legged, hovering savasana, feeling the small bones of his fingers as the wind capered kittenishly around my legs. Lately, I've been spending less and less time locked secure in that embrace, poised like one of two figures on a playing card. Instead, I let my coach's fingers slip from mine; let the wind lock me into its rippling tractor beam; let myself be forced to fly.

Most of the time, especially at the start, it was very, very hard to let those fingers go.

I'd be distracted by the engulfing sensation of the wind, its multitude of invisible ribbons wrapping my body in an ever-shifting garment, pressing teasingly into the backs of my thighs, spanking fabric against the tender skin at my waist and the insides of my arms with brutal little slaps. Every adjustment seemed to send me careening at the faces watching me from behind the windowed walls and I'd sink to the wires at the bottom of the tunnel, on my back, rolled fetal and stunned, feeling bruises bloom under my clothes.

Now, even though I struggle, there are moments of illuminating delight.

I've flown head-down by myself before, but it always seemed as though I were muscling myself bodily against a bullying foe, doomed to be quickly crumpled in the fist of my own grunting determination and thrown against the wall. Yesterday, it was not so. As I broke that tenuous connection of fingers, I felt the wind like a strong current in deep water, somber and unfightable, the subtle shifts in its pressure suddenly sweet. My spine somehow discovered where to be; my hands drifted out, quiet and questing, and I felt the wind cut in to the accustomed topsy-turvy waltz with my coach, slipping between my fingers as it danced me away. For a few long moments I stayed there, my toes feeling the edges of my little movements forwards and back, an ebullient smile pressing the apples of my cheeks into the pads of my helmet.

Even when I tumbled out, the smile stayed.

Monday, February 04, 2013

GTFO


I hate coming back to LA.

I always start strong; start tough. Start motivated.

Doesn't last.

LA dumps buckets over my fiery. LA plays a symphony of petty disappointments over the furtive footfall rhythm of the days. LA sallows my skin and empties my eyes of sparkle.

After a couple of weeks have passed here, the air starts to settle in my chest in rimy layers. I stop wanting to get up in the morning. I stop tasting food. An insidious grayness starts to wend its way up through the fist-clenched get-up-and-go I summoned when I first passed the city limits. It squeezes liquid from my eyes; it slithers out my lips in nonsense vitriol; it infects what I see when I look in the mirror; what I see in others' eyes when I'm standing in front of them. I start to feel ugly. Stupid. Slow.

It used to take weeks for the transformation to click into place. Now, it's days.

Tomorrow, I run.

Thank god.

Friday, February 01, 2013

kama mada moha



I. kama


It caught me completely off-guard.


I drew a long, sweet breath and pulled myself down into pada-hastasana. As I settled my chest against my thighs, as I have done so many hundreds of times before, I looked at my feet on the mat beneath me and was suddenly electric with the memory of your mouth around my toes. The room around me disappeared; the rivulets of sweat slinking along my spine and legs suddenly traced my topography with the exquisite tickle of your remembered fingers, and I nearly toppled to the floor.






II. mada

Your voice is always a surprise. 


So much time passes between my hearing of it; somehow, I can never recall the exact measures of its details -- how many parts bassline resonance, whisper, arch-eyebrowed tenor, silence, growl. Though your writing carries the cadence, there's a singular pleasure in the first few words you speak when we see each other, as it is only then that I can match the familiar beats of your language to the rest of the remembered instruments.





III. moha


I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. 

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, 
all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. 


I hunger for your sleek laugh, 
your hands the color of a savage harvest, 
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, 
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. 


I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, 
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, 
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, 


and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, 
hunting for you, for your hot heart, 
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.


― Pablo Neruda