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