Lying not quite on my back but more so than any other side, I can sense the nearness of the tiny dirt particles and bits of floor clinging to my clothing but not the ceiling. Diffused and minute, focus beams into the atmosphere, far beyond the studio lid, and also pressure washes the interior surface of my body.
I’m here and everywhere, all at once.
While here, present in the space between the ears and the scooped-out interior tips of the fingers, the insistent urge to move rumbles from matching pits of black hole deep in the belly and palms. Vacuum, a whirlpool draining from behind my navel, so easily folds the body in two as I’m faced with my kneecaps — the same black holes contract my hands from the most tender center spot relegating them temporarily occupied, take a moment to embrace contraction.
This curled in space might be infinite, if it wasn’t instantaneous.
On its own impulse a leg shoots out of the open-air womb, planting itself firmly onto— into if it could— the rubbery floor, propelling hips, torso, head to rapidly unfurl into much cooler air. The expanse of my wingspan driven wider by an eager collarbone and the desire for stretch. What follows is swirling, vaulting, pouncing and pause.
Site isn't floor, studio, rehearsal, but the perimeter of my sternum, the weakness of worked hamstrings, the compensation of shifting too far to one side. It is always somewhere inside my body.