Monday, May 30, 2016

baguazhang

Today, I did my first Bagua practice in a few months.
Circling and spiralling between the earth and sky, I am reminded that Bagua is my mother and my father; and when I walk the circles, I feel less like an orphan.

Sunday, May 29, 2016

the voice

The voice.
The voice is the implement of rage.
Once you can let that rage from your hips hurtle out past your open throat in an inchoate roar into the universe, you can drop into the grief that inevitably comes after. I think grief is a music that shakes up the ribs, the abdomen. And when that is done, you can drop into the softness of your heart; find words to love with, words to fuck with, words to make peace with.

love and violence

I am learning that I can be wild and bad and tempestuous and still be loved. Still held, despite the scratchings and the clawings. Still heard, over the screamings and roarings.

I am a bundle of ruthlessness, held against the bosom of my beloved, and turned into a bundle of joy.

Saturday, May 28, 2016

dancing in the master's house

If you dance in the master's house in order to take it down, you must think about the tools at your disposal. You must think about the walls in the house as well as the walls in the bodies; and how you are going to dismantle them.

The tools at your disposal are vectors and vortexes that you create out of bodies in space and time. Your materials are your body and all the bodies in the house. How do you free these bodies? You dance. But what does it mean to dance towards freedom? Marten Spangberg, in this talk says that one of the functions of dance is to lose yourself. I think there is something in this.
(And suddenly I am thinking of the dancer as terrorist. You annihilate yourself in order to annihilate the container of oppression)
There is something in rhythm, repetition, duration, phrasing, silences, suspension.
There is something in making time disappear.

And if you dance in the master's house without wanting to take it down, what the fuck are you doing? Why are you dancing?

Thursday, May 26, 2016

blowing the rage out of my eyes

Oh, the irony of reflecting on how the Model Minority straight jacket has impacted every fucking aspect of my life and body, from the most public to the most intimate, while listening to Madama Butterfly very very loudly.

anger

DaddyCrone said never to pick up the whip in anger.
So where to put this rage?
What implement should I pick up?

Monday, May 23, 2016

the whip

The whip is my new teacher.
The first time I tried it, in the basement of a man who gave flogging and whipping workshops, it drove me crazy. I had a temper tantrum because it would not obey me. Wicked-D gently took it out of my hand and said, "That's enough for today". I went on with my life and concentrated on other implements to master. But a few months ago, after having fantasized about it for a number of months, I bought myself a whip - a paracord one, thinking that the only way to know if I would enjoy it would be really just to keep practising. And the only way to practise was to actually own one. Also, I needed to focus on acquiring a new skill as a way to cope with the emotional turmoil around my life.

I learned that the whip requires the dissolving of your will. That it demands a fluidity in your mind and body even as the earth holds you unconditionally. That the only way to reach the end of the whip is to connect your spirit to the spirit of the whip. And what a spirit it is - a great force hiding in the softness, to be unleashed only through a gentle flick of the wrist executed at just the right time. One has to listen to the moment where the force of the earth moves through your spine, into the arm and into the whip, through a complex set of articulations. Then the fall towards gravity. Letting it fall. Allowing the fall.
Allowing for softness.
Allowing for nothing.
In your mind, you hold the certainty of the earth beneath you, the clarity of your target and the awareness of a point on your whip that is a few centimetres before the cracker. And when everything lines up, the flick of the wrist brings it all together in a delicious crack of connection.

A few weeks ago, I bought a leather whip from a wonderful woman who taught me how to love with the whip. To connect your heart to the heart of your target. To connect the rhythms of your rocking pelvis, your breath, your beating heart to the rhythms of another through the sinewy undulations of the single tail. A new way of dancing. A new way of loving.

And thus, whip in hand, I am on a journey of dancing and loving with abundance and generosity.

life is perfect

Last year, during the voice teacher training, amid the chaos of a room full of catharsis, Catherine said to me, "Life is perfect" to assure me that all that we need is there in every moment.

Yesterday, amid the turmoil and the joys of the last few months, Jason and I discover that he is a whip slut.

The love of my life discovers he loves my new love.
I cannot help but see a future full of delicious new pain and bliss to explore. New depths to dive into, new markings to wear on our skin.