A woman, saffron red hair, was the partner of a man with a violent temper.
When his temper flares,
his skin tears open
his teeth grow longer
and his eyes turn red
He was a werewolf.
A werewolf waiting
to growl
to bleed
and be bled.
I was present, but fearful. So when he asked for it, I did not give him my real name.'Melissa', I said. He didn't believe me.
Sensing this, I ran outside and clung to the underside of a stairway, upside down like a bat.
'Ohhh..., you scared Rani away.' The woman moaned.
For I had seen the hatchlings of his fury, and for me that was enough. He tore her head off and her neck open. Red gaping hole. Red gaping wound, which she denied. Saffron lady clung to him just as fear clung onto me.
The last dredges of the dream saw me flying laboriously towards the blue sky.
Of what use is the bluest of skies when a werewolf waits to tear at you from underneath?
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
I am woman. I know my pelvis.
I spent today in a workshop, for women only, on the pelvis.
I had met Alice Cummins, the woman running the workshop, during a weekend of improvised theater. We had begun a conversation about my qualms to engage in theater and performance practice, being all too familiar with the stereotype of actors: self-obsessed-navel-gazing-fame-chasing-anorexic-twats.
I said to Alice, who is well respected in the world of body-work, dance and improvised performance, ‘I need to know that the benefits of engaging in performance does not stop at me.’ She had promised to think about my queries.
And so we met again. Different city. Different context.
The day started with all twenty five of us introducing ourselves by name. Alice encouraged us to take our time, so that we may ‘get a feel’ for the person.
Of course, it took several tries before people became more comfortable with a slower pace. We met everyone’s eyes as our names were spoken and allowed the syllables to hang in the air, like freshly washed underpants that you were eager to take away from prying eyes.
We then broke off into smaller groups of five to discuss why we had chosen to come to the workshop and what insights, if any, we were hoping to gain from being there. What the women shared astounded me.
One woman in her seventies, spoke of giving up dancing ten years prior and needing to reconnect with her body. She spoke barely above a whisper- a whisper was enough to entice my curiousity.
Another woman revealed that she had always felt disconnected from her pelvis. There lay a wounding tale behind this. Her first baby died following a caesarean, a procedure she undertook because she could not reconcile herself to the idea of a baby making its way through her pelvis. A fair fear, I would say. ‘I want to know’, she said, ‘what is this?’ Her hands expressed a fear of the unknown. A fear towards our own bodies.
As for myself, I wanted to be present within my own body, without judgment.
We regrouped.
Alice had placed a pelvis shaped cast in the middle of the floor. Unfamiliar terms spilled from her lips as our fingers collectively traced the curves and loopholes of the sculpture. From the hills of the ‘iliac crest’, to the shallow caverns of the ‘ilium’. We appreciated the palm-like shape of one’s ‘sacrum’, stroked the ‘coccyx’ and marveled at the hip joint, taking in the finality of the ‘pubic symphysis’.
What was all this? Is it possible for one’s pelvis to be so spacious? So flowing in its design! How is it that I have not been aware of these spaces, these fluctuating surfaces, prior to today?
Just as Alice had promised, we leaped into exploring our own pelvises. There was a humorous moment or two, how could there not be? A roomful of women feeling their pubic bones, mine was an ant’s breath away from my clitoris, it was no wonder that the room looked to be filled with women masturbating!
Our worlds were about to expand that much more. A woman approached me from across the room and offered to be my partner for the next exercise. We were to trace the contours of each other’s pelvis, lying face flat on the ground.
Recognising that I had only just introduced myself to my partner, I lay a gentle hand on her back. I let a moment pass, to introduce my touch to her body.
Then, the coaxing began. My thumbs seeking out the most obvious bone: the hip joint. It presented itself to me, this prehistoric creation that has been handed down generations of women. I wondered how many of my mothers’ mothers had been aware the spaces within. The spaces that held a baby’s head, that allowed for it to fall through and out! These spaces that bring agony as well as ecstasy. How many of the women of my family had explored these cavities?
And yet there I was, exploring the bones and sliding surfaces of a woman I did not know at all, yet knew so well after only five minutes.
A dance followed. A dance initiated first by the sacrum, the sliding plates of the sacrum. You lead your body from the back. ‘Shift!’ Alice’s voice was a leading compass, ‘Now lead it from the front. Dance with your pubic bone!’ Change partners! The third dance, a dance of the ‘acetabulum’, the cavern where your leg meets your pelvis.
Of course, the women were shy. I was shy. I held back. Sometimes. Other times, there was a clear vision of a space that I had just become aware of. A clear sensation of sinking deeper. Deeper into my womanhood. Yes, well. This is about being a woman. How can you own your womanhood without owning your body? W-O-M-A-N.
Two women left. It was obvious that this irked Alice. When you embark on such an exploration, it defeats the purpose if you do not maintain a connection through the parts that make you uncomfortable. The sensation of needing to flee, leads to the best of learning opportunities.
Other such pearls of wisdom followed. Not just from Alice. No, what was most refreshing about Alice as a teacher was that she recognized the wisdom in all of us, and stated it as such. She encouraged an articulation of our ‘collective intelligence’ in making this 3-day workshop what it is. So, the women shared.
I sat back and marveled, this woman was remarkable in her generosity, in her attentiveness to us. Through her dedication to her craft, in sensitizing herself to her own body and teaching us to do the same, she was sharing her wisdom and letting us share our wisdom.
Tonight, I began to understand how one’s performance practice, one’s absolute dedication to a practice, can be an act of wondrous generosity.
I had met Alice Cummins, the woman running the workshop, during a weekend of improvised theater. We had begun a conversation about my qualms to engage in theater and performance practice, being all too familiar with the stereotype of actors: self-obsessed-navel-gazing-fame-chasing-anorexic-twats.
I said to Alice, who is well respected in the world of body-work, dance and improvised performance, ‘I need to know that the benefits of engaging in performance does not stop at me.’ She had promised to think about my queries.
And so we met again. Different city. Different context.
The day started with all twenty five of us introducing ourselves by name. Alice encouraged us to take our time, so that we may ‘get a feel’ for the person.
Of course, it took several tries before people became more comfortable with a slower pace. We met everyone’s eyes as our names were spoken and allowed the syllables to hang in the air, like freshly washed underpants that you were eager to take away from prying eyes.
We then broke off into smaller groups of five to discuss why we had chosen to come to the workshop and what insights, if any, we were hoping to gain from being there. What the women shared astounded me.
One woman in her seventies, spoke of giving up dancing ten years prior and needing to reconnect with her body. She spoke barely above a whisper- a whisper was enough to entice my curiousity.
Another woman revealed that she had always felt disconnected from her pelvis. There lay a wounding tale behind this. Her first baby died following a caesarean, a procedure she undertook because she could not reconcile herself to the idea of a baby making its way through her pelvis. A fair fear, I would say. ‘I want to know’, she said, ‘what is this?’ Her hands expressed a fear of the unknown. A fear towards our own bodies.
As for myself, I wanted to be present within my own body, without judgment.
We regrouped.
Alice had placed a pelvis shaped cast in the middle of the floor. Unfamiliar terms spilled from her lips as our fingers collectively traced the curves and loopholes of the sculpture. From the hills of the ‘iliac crest’, to the shallow caverns of the ‘ilium’. We appreciated the palm-like shape of one’s ‘sacrum’, stroked the ‘coccyx’ and marveled at the hip joint, taking in the finality of the ‘pubic symphysis’.
What was all this? Is it possible for one’s pelvis to be so spacious? So flowing in its design! How is it that I have not been aware of these spaces, these fluctuating surfaces, prior to today?
Just as Alice had promised, we leaped into exploring our own pelvises. There was a humorous moment or two, how could there not be? A roomful of women feeling their pubic bones, mine was an ant’s breath away from my clitoris, it was no wonder that the room looked to be filled with women masturbating!
Our worlds were about to expand that much more. A woman approached me from across the room and offered to be my partner for the next exercise. We were to trace the contours of each other’s pelvis, lying face flat on the ground.
Recognising that I had only just introduced myself to my partner, I lay a gentle hand on her back. I let a moment pass, to introduce my touch to her body.
Then, the coaxing began. My thumbs seeking out the most obvious bone: the hip joint. It presented itself to me, this prehistoric creation that has been handed down generations of women. I wondered how many of my mothers’ mothers had been aware the spaces within. The spaces that held a baby’s head, that allowed for it to fall through and out! These spaces that bring agony as well as ecstasy. How many of the women of my family had explored these cavities?
And yet there I was, exploring the bones and sliding surfaces of a woman I did not know at all, yet knew so well after only five minutes.
A dance followed. A dance initiated first by the sacrum, the sliding plates of the sacrum. You lead your body from the back. ‘Shift!’ Alice’s voice was a leading compass, ‘Now lead it from the front. Dance with your pubic bone!’ Change partners! The third dance, a dance of the ‘acetabulum’, the cavern where your leg meets your pelvis.
Of course, the women were shy. I was shy. I held back. Sometimes. Other times, there was a clear vision of a space that I had just become aware of. A clear sensation of sinking deeper. Deeper into my womanhood. Yes, well. This is about being a woman. How can you own your womanhood without owning your body? W-O-M-A-N.
Two women left. It was obvious that this irked Alice. When you embark on such an exploration, it defeats the purpose if you do not maintain a connection through the parts that make you uncomfortable. The sensation of needing to flee, leads to the best of learning opportunities.
Other such pearls of wisdom followed. Not just from Alice. No, what was most refreshing about Alice as a teacher was that she recognized the wisdom in all of us, and stated it as such. She encouraged an articulation of our ‘collective intelligence’ in making this 3-day workshop what it is. So, the women shared.
I sat back and marveled, this woman was remarkable in her generosity, in her attentiveness to us. Through her dedication to her craft, in sensitizing herself to her own body and teaching us to do the same, she was sharing her wisdom and letting us share our wisdom.
Tonight, I began to understand how one’s performance practice, one’s absolute dedication to a practice, can be an act of wondrous generosity.
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