still
what i looked forward to most was the not talking. being around people, and not talking to them. how lovely. look down at all times, be self-effacing, get left alone. without that sucking pressure in your ears forcing you to say something.
and sit everyday. for 12 hours. that's a long time to observe your breath, even if it is a riveting object. and it's a long time to see with your skin, to absorb sensation and see it sleep. to note when an itch arises and to observe how very much you want to scratch it. to look at pain and say, hmm how interesting, i wonder how long it will last.
when you sit on the floor for long periods of time, without stretching your legs or rubbing your toes together, you get numb. it's like your legs, from the knees down, are trying to cleave to the cold floor and become part of it. blood carries with it awareness of touch, and the blood is trapped. your calves, ankles and soles feel like the faintly remembered stations of a phantom limb. oh good, you're thinking, numbness is all right. numbness i can live with.
then, in the centre of the cottony silence of your knee, there knocks the tread of a pulse. has the blood, sneaky fiend, found a way to flow after all? no, this can't be blood. blood is warmth, blood is relief. whereas this growing area of feeling is anything but welcome. this is not blood, this is the steady trickle of hurt.
the sum total of: the sinking of metal teeth in your temples, the ache that ambles up and down your back, the vicious twists of a cramping muscle. all the little hurts from all over your body fill up slowly in the pit of your stomach, where fear lives. an uneasy liquid, soon calmed, then distilled. sharp, clear, citric, it trickles down your leg. stopping, drop after pregnant drop, at the centre of your knee.
i can do this, i can do this.
in 30 minutes, you go from bovine meditator to blotch of screaming red. your entire body is a throb of pain. nothing exists but the knowing of this endless rhythm. no, that's not true. you don't know the pain at all. a pigeon getting sucked into a plane's engine knows nothing of aerodynamics. she only knows her own scream, it fills her tiny skull.
it filled mine. observe, they said. don't react, observe. how how how?
but strangely, you do. just like you seize upon the most arbitary detail in moments of great stress-the magnified weave of fabric, the smell of tar, the humidity of someone's breath on your wrist-you notice the slow shrinking of your mind. and the one thought that it curls around. mine was, run.
stretch. get up. quit. run. run. run.
it doesn't help to know that being trapped makes you mad. but you see that you're not angry with the bars, you're angry with the solidity of its hostage. the dumb weight of the calves. the helpless thereness of the ankle. the crumpled anguish of the toes.
stillness is not contentment. stillness is not peace. stillness is endless violence.
still like the door of a coffin. still like a poised scalpel. still like the string on a guitar. and taut like silences drawn.
and sit everyday. for 12 hours. that's a long time to observe your breath, even if it is a riveting object. and it's a long time to see with your skin, to absorb sensation and see it sleep. to note when an itch arises and to observe how very much you want to scratch it. to look at pain and say, hmm how interesting, i wonder how long it will last.
when you sit on the floor for long periods of time, without stretching your legs or rubbing your toes together, you get numb. it's like your legs, from the knees down, are trying to cleave to the cold floor and become part of it. blood carries with it awareness of touch, and the blood is trapped. your calves, ankles and soles feel like the faintly remembered stations of a phantom limb. oh good, you're thinking, numbness is all right. numbness i can live with.
then, in the centre of the cottony silence of your knee, there knocks the tread of a pulse. has the blood, sneaky fiend, found a way to flow after all? no, this can't be blood. blood is warmth, blood is relief. whereas this growing area of feeling is anything but welcome. this is not blood, this is the steady trickle of hurt.
the sum total of: the sinking of metal teeth in your temples, the ache that ambles up and down your back, the vicious twists of a cramping muscle. all the little hurts from all over your body fill up slowly in the pit of your stomach, where fear lives. an uneasy liquid, soon calmed, then distilled. sharp, clear, citric, it trickles down your leg. stopping, drop after pregnant drop, at the centre of your knee.
i can do this, i can do this.
in 30 minutes, you go from bovine meditator to blotch of screaming red. your entire body is a throb of pain. nothing exists but the knowing of this endless rhythm. no, that's not true. you don't know the pain at all. a pigeon getting sucked into a plane's engine knows nothing of aerodynamics. she only knows her own scream, it fills her tiny skull.
it filled mine. observe, they said. don't react, observe. how how how?
but strangely, you do. just like you seize upon the most arbitary detail in moments of great stress-the magnified weave of fabric, the smell of tar, the humidity of someone's breath on your wrist-you notice the slow shrinking of your mind. and the one thought that it curls around. mine was, run.
stretch. get up. quit. run. run. run.
it doesn't help to know that being trapped makes you mad. but you see that you're not angry with the bars, you're angry with the solidity of its hostage. the dumb weight of the calves. the helpless thereness of the ankle. the crumpled anguish of the toes.
stillness is not contentment. stillness is not peace. stillness is endless violence.
still like the door of a coffin. still like a poised scalpel. still like the string on a guitar. and taut like silences drawn.
posted by Deepa at 1:16 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home