Thursday, September 8, 2016


A construction worker passes by the shop, I think:
"There is intelligence in your walk."

The best memory of the last 3 months is being in a near empty apartment [save for 7 computers, gin and a bed] and treating it like being back at the barre. Shoes off / knee highs stay on. His useless legs, arm flopping out. It does not matter what I do.
Sloppily, not without effort, I -- Plié [demi and grand] / Elevé / Battement Tendu [devant, à la seconde, derriére] / rond de jambe en dohrs / rond de jambe en dedans. After that, everything's tight, musculature aches, unsure of being in movement, let past reflex take over, something learned & ferocious in the body that has not gone away, like releasing any sound from the throat.

When I try to sleep I can see large hands plastered across a stretched midair torso. Clean. Everything so clean. Like these limbs are lit by studio light.

What's that on your hip? Some kind of dried excretion. But I won't ask.

Put all your weight on me. Do you think I can get away? Couldn't. My own wriggling's reptilian, self registering as a terrible slither, foreign movement pattern. But at rest I feel soft, leaner, right.

I stopped reading in bed. Desk only.

"The dogs in Damnation are like the dogs in Stalker."
She cuts me off "Obvious."

It is.

Why's 'The Little Match Girl' sporting such sizable tits?

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