Cindy
The cell phone, the ‘smart’ phone, didn’t work right in front of the place. I try calling Chrome and nothing gets out. Energy is the starting point for the ideas here—we’ve already said that language, much more than a messy bastard (cf. Moraline), is just one orginary experience that, out of our fear and the domination of others, has been programmed through indoctrination. And we know with the first sentence someone will jump the gun. The chef who pulls apart an animal, moves his arms in a ballet so that the animal falls apart before his eyes, has no strategy, but an art. We do not approach him as he is working.
The energy was disrupted because Cindy has been working with energy for some time. I didn’t know her address yet I walked right into the right building and, after one encounter with a woman who may well could have massaged me, I found Cindy. But the passive activity of massage is not what Cindy’s work is about—she likens her work to optometry, where the patient must judge what prism feels best, works best. The pelvis is the center of many things, or similar to the indoctrination of language, this is where she begins. Some osteopath figured things out about the body with energy—no doubt what he figured out was ancient, but there is no fucking ‘uncovering’ in anything: it’s as new now as it was then.
My proprioception is off, she tells, me; I told her how Charlie had a book with this title, how self perception is a big deal for me, how a lot of good thinking starts there, like how she starts with the pelvis. Moraline and I have battled about these starting points, but it may be like how you push off with your right foot if you are right handed—you must push with something, start somewhere, there cannot be a desperate quietism. I don’t know where the Colombians begin or which foot they push off with—it seems they’ve always been dancing, they’ve never stopped moving, they’ve always had that rhythm to them, they’ve never been looking for that new music to make all the salsa go away, but they may dance with some new rhythms if it feels right.
I am a man without a dance and a rythym—it embarrasses me in cultures where dance is how they lead themselves in the morning and through their sleep and in the fields, on the street with a girl, with a beer with a girl, dancing with a girl. If you have to mimic dance, if you must take lessons, if you must look for music, you are an orphaned soul and you have no parents, no family, your legs and arms and hips--your pelvis, the center of your energy, has no friends--and at night you sleep like Jayne alone and cold yet growing among the new stars. In other words, a man without dance is at once the saddest yet most hopeful occurrence in existence: He is nothing, but has the chance of orginary: when he finally dances---if he finally dances—he will share a universe patently strange, born as a star’s first breath of light, it will shine on a woman’s face and make her a queen, a man a pharaoh.
The Slovenian
The Slovenian was incredulous the New Yorkers could not imagine the flavor of sour milk—it’s like peanut butter in familiarity. There is a wheat, potato, and milk pastry from his village, far outside the capital, near the Ukrainian border. It has to be made there, for the energy, all the feelings, eyesight of the village, morning trash burning, sticks on fire mid day to boil tomatoes and peppers in the stew, chickens walking under drying clothes, and a gypsy's final day: wander for scraps, maybe better, maybe a harcover book read in a dry undisrupted forest free from summer fires. He protected an explosives depot at home when in the military, Iraq was worse than Serbia at that time because it probably meant some fighting, the Croatians wiped out many Serbs in the second war, plus they were Nazis, so pay attention to how ‘bad’ the Serbs really were, was his point, listen well, measure these images you have been given: why were the serbs so pissed off? Why would they do so many ‘bad’ things? Very small compared to the 40s, you have no idea, he meant.
Who is chasing who?
“Je je.” Not a laugh of joy but what we call ‘irony,’ that lament that we know what’s happening but we do not send it back more forcefully in the opposite direction. Yes, N., indeed we both want to run away from each other, yet one seems to chase, and one moves to the dry rocks of the reservoir to the sun at the foothills of summer and autumn. A woman can only be on top for so long before I think of my next meal or climb through the rocks that leads to the meadow.
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