waiseec-blog
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“I have been trying, for some time now, to find dignity in my loneliness. I have been finding this hard to do.’ - Bluets, Maggie Nelson
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writing from the body
how do these words find you? how and where do they exist in the body? which parts do they reside, originate from, move through to get onto the page?
the writers I've fucked (when we were still able to do those things) live so much in their heads even while fucking
is that what makes a writer? is there another way?
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stories from dance movement psychotherapy
you’re somewhere where you find yourself growing amidst all this chaos
you’re different today, she says. your face
you know the sun helps and the wine helps and a bit of daytime sexting helps but you don’t tell her that. the therapist who is not her has also helped, the one has said ‘be kinder to yourself’.
you know something has shifted. you feel it in your body and seeing your face on the screen, you see what she sees. your face is different
she says you seem more in control. this virus has given you... space
space. for myself
time. for myself. time that I thought I didn’t have or couldn’t take
attention. from myself to myself
Instructions for a Dance:
-when you move, don't start with your arms, wrists, fingers all delicate like you usually do.
- this time, start from the centre, the core of you. this centre that wants to be in control. think of a tiger, a tiger mother, even though you are not a mother and maybe never will be, now
- push through even though this is hard. this movement, this dance is usually the most enjoyable part for you. the most peaceful part. but today it is hard because you are not doing it to bring yourself peace or to feel better, but to find out what is inside you. this is hard. it’s not pleasurable. it doesn’t come naturally to you, using this part of you, this steel, this muscle.
-you want to be told what to do, how and when. you want to be held down by the wrists and feel his body melting over you, this is what brings you peace, release. but you know you must find another way. this is why we learn to use our core
- the ending is back on the ground. it’s exploding, standing, it’s been 3 minutes of dance but already too much.
- come down to the ground.
- be still
- rest.
End
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forbidden touch
I wonder
how can I touch you now
and how can you allow yourself to be touched?
...
close your eyes
take a breath deep into your belly
take another deep into your chest
can you let the breath expand your heart?
can you feel your heart ( could you ever...?)
could you let it expand... try... for me?
close your eyes and you might forget it’s me
you don't have to see my face and maybe that’s easier
maybe I’m someone else (and if so, I don’t want to know)
***
breathe deeply
can you feel our fingertips touching
can you feel my fingers brush your skin
(how I'd love to stroke your face)
***
keep breathing
there is no space, no distance between us
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in isolation (falling in solitude)
you have no words
you can only move
your body is how you speak
your body opens
and closes
it offers something
there is strength where your words are muffled and mumbled through tears
your body has something, something stronger than words spoken or presented on a page for you to learn by heart and recite on a stage or before a camera
you have used the words of others for too long. They never belonged to you, these words, they talked of living inside, inhabiting a role but you were always yourself but lost and voiceless
the way back is through the body and
‘the most beautiful part of your body is where your mother’s shadow falls’
listen to your body
listen to your mother (do you remember her voice, do you remember her body, its softness? the softness she gave to you)
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All writing is a lie. From the moment it leaves you. From that moment you've changed, and what you wrote, barely seconds, minutes ago, is no longer true of you. No longer an honest version of you or what you might have thought seconds, minutes ago.
and how about years? when years down the line you return and see something else in those words, something, something that’s not you, maybe a glimpse or shadow. and you want to detach yourself from these words because they are no longer you, were only briefly you.
this you that is ever-changing
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immigrant child of the 80s
you were born before the internet was in every pocket
you received information from the outside world through a television screen you were only allowed to watch at certain times
no one looked like you
when you were older you sat in the local library to read whatever scraps of newspaper hadn’t been taken
a new neighbour moved in next door and passed on her copies of The Sun once she’d done with them
people thought you were ok because they liked your food, but only your food
you learned early never to let people hear you speaking your own language
you knew the mantra and the code for Getting Out Of Here:
Study hard. Work hard. Get a Good Job.
you didn’t hear:
put yourself first. how do you feel? it’s important to be happy.
when you realised you weren’t happy and that you wanted to do things differently, they wouldn’t allow it. your happiness wasn’t your prerogative.
by 15, you were tired of life.
by 15, you were tired of study.
by 15, you were tired of work.
your nervous system was already weak. a lot of Work, yes, but also. Also. Racism. The emotional work. Racism weakening your spirit, which was always strong, despite the work which crushed you, was too much for you.
you didn’t understand that you had to Rest. to Play. to Sing. to Dance. Or, you had the Desire.
Desires running all through you. But this patch of You was shrinking.
it’s spent it’s lifetime growing a little, bursting a little, and shrinking back a little. bit by bit, somehow, this You must be set free. to be Wild. untamed You-ness.
you, child, set free set free
set down, set down your honourable load
for it has been an honour to be you
to have lived through you
set free every word every dance every song that lives in you
every poem you never wrote
the travels you never took
the earth you never felt under your fingernails because they told you it didn’t belong to you
it’s Time.
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What does your rage look like?
Mine is a quiet, intense rage. It doesn’t shout or punch or scream. Not yet, anyway. It’s so quiet it’s almost invisible and most people don’t see it, don’t know it’s there. In a way, it’s the most dangerous kind. The one that creeps up on the unsuspecting. In a way, it’s their own fault. For being so unperceptive. For not looking closely or carefully enough. For looking over me. Through me. Like I don’t exist.
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Compassion 2
I am thinking constantly about what makes another human being capable of doing such a thing to another human being.
What would the world be like if everyone practiced compassion in their actions?
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Self-compassion for the artist
I think a lot about care in the world. How the world is a confusing and stressful place at the moment (always?) and how we need to take care of each other. How we need to remember everyone is struggling, just as we are.
Compassion is something I have been practicing a lot of, trying to. I find it helps me be less angry. I’ve spent too much of my life feeling angry and I need a break.
Self-compassion is something I have been telling students about, taking them through exercises on how not to be so hard on themselves, how to silence the voice of the inner critic.
But a colleague pointed out yesterday, that the limits and deadlines I seem to have imposed on myself seem a little, well, MEAN.
Mid-way through last year, I gave myself a deadline. I had until the end of the year to prove myself, to myself, that it was worth carrying on with the business of Art. I didn’t know exactly how I would do it, but I would need some sort of breakthrough, some sign to carry on. Otherwise: give up, change career, get some financial stability, move on. Start over.
I finished the year, my colleague reminded me, having performed in a critically-acclaimed five star show, been awarded a grant from a highly competitive fund and written my first play which has got me a meeting with the Literary Manager of one of London’s most prestigious theatres.
My response to this? I gave myself an extra three months to prove myself, to myself, that I should carry on. By March/April of this year, I need to have some sort of breakthrough, a sign, to carry on. Otherwise: give up, stop kidding yourself, move on, start over.
The funding I have been given is to provide me with space and time for reflection and exploration; there is no expectation for me to produce or create something to prove I was worthy of the award. And yet I feel I must. Otherwise I’m a fraud, a fluke.
I agree this seems… mean. And unrealistic. And is something I would never advise a fellow artist.
What will it take for me to practice the care and compassion on myself that I give to others?
The pressure to prove oneself even after fifteen years of working and earning money from working in theatre clings to my skin. It’s become part of me.
Having someone reassure me that the practice takes time, that no one expects me to produce anything amazing at the end of this period is a relief, a release of the pressure, albeit temporarily. It reduces me to tears. It’s something I should be able to do for myself, I think.
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“The symbols of the self arise in the depth of the body.” (C. G. Jung)
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take care of your pain
How old is your pain?
Where do you feel it in your body?
Which part is it calling from?
Which part is loudest?
What is it saying to you?
What are you saying to it?
Imagine you’re holding it between your hands
be gentle with it
find someone to give it to
find a way to pass it to them
when you think it’s in good hands, walk around the room
how does it feel to be without it
what space have you cleared
how does your body move without it? How has it changed?
what’s your relationship to it now?
how close are you? how far are you? do you care?
How does it feel to hold someone’s pain for them?
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the melancholy of race
“in psychoanalysis, we focus on the mother, not the motherland; family dynamics but not the family of nations.” Racial melancholia, Racial Dissociation” - David L. Eng & Shinhee Han
The second generation immigrant is stuck in a cycle of pathological mourning; mourning a motherland they never knew, a culture, customs, language, home that is alien to them. They know not what they have lost.
The cycle continues, but for how long?
How much sorrow do I carry in my bones? My veins? My heart that feels like a weight, a burden?
How much of this will I pass onto my child? How can I protect her from this grief passed down through my blood?
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to grieve the unknown
How do you recover from the loss of something or someone you never had in the first place?
How can you mourn when the object of loss is unknown?
For Freud, this is the difference between mourning and melancholy.
Mourning is a natural response to loss which eventually, in time, we can overcome or at least find peace with. In melancholia, “one feels justified in maintaining the belief that a loss occurred, but one cannot see clearly what it is that has been lost”. We roam the earth seeking that which we’ve lost, though we cannot identify it. We’re in a mourning without end, a grief that can’t be overcome because we can’t identify what we feel we’ve lost.
How, then, can I explain this to you, you who do not walk in my shoes? How can I make you understand my grief when you have no way of knowing what it is I have lost? and I, too, don’t have the words to explain to you the loss I feel for something that was never there.
instead I feel the absence.
like a ghost by my side behind me in the kitchen in the bedroom in my bed waiting for me at the bus stop breathing softly down my neck is it something loving is it something to be feared?
why does it make me feel sorrow if it’s not something I deserve why can’t I just forget it, forget the possibility of it?
how do I feel the presence of this absence?
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women and girls dance
this is the dance of women and girls whose words were stuck in their throats or never fully formed
they dance because they could not make themselves heard
words and language got lost or forgotten
this is how languages die
but the language of the body was still inside them
the dance is jagged messily spilling blood sweat raw open wounds salty sadness stings guts piss shit wind water so much water so much fluidity you can’t escape it it follows you
this liquid life
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