I’m lying down on the rough black rug in my room. On my back, I feel every tough piece of dirt and lint that the rug hides. This rug was here when i got here, last summer after moving from chicago. I’m trying to do yoga moves – the doctor in chicago told me, at my “yearly check-up”, that i needed to start to do yoga and stretches everyday to help my body and my scoliosis. I haven’t been. D hugged me the other day and squeezed my uneven and protruding shoulder blades like two handles, and jokingly threatened to break them off. I think of detachment of the body. On the rug, i’m not thinking about any of that. I’m thinking about another rug, the carpet in my parents’ living room. In many memories combined into one, i’m watching my dad do stretches, years ago. He had a particular jerky way of doing sit-ups. I remember thinking he was doing it wrong, he was so fast as he lifted his back off the carpeted floor. Maybe i can even hear his breathing pattern. My dad liked to wear black fuzzy sweatbands like an athlete. He liked to do pull-ups on the pull-up bar in the laundry room door frame. He had that crunching tool that you squeeze in your fist for strong hand muscles. In the memory, i’m on the floor, too, from floor level, watching. At my eye’s reach, the legs of the coffee table, the tv table. I’m not actually there. I’m on the black rug, unable to move. Why am i watching him, in the back of my mind, of the past? The memory detaches me from my life, when i need to be taking care of myself.
moving through air
moving through air
moving through air
I’m lying down on the rough black rug in my room. On my back, I feel every tough piece of dirt and lint that the rug hides. This rug was here when i got here, last summer after moving from chicago. I’m trying to do yoga moves – the doctor in chicago told me, at my “yearly check-up”, that i needed to start to do yoga and stretches everyday to help my body and my scoliosis. I haven’t been. D hugged me the other day and squeezed my uneven and protruding shoulder blades like two handles, and jokingly threatened to break them off. I think of detachment of the body. On the rug, i’m not thinking about any of that. I’m thinking about another rug, the carpet in my parents’ living room. In many memories combined into one, i’m watching my dad do stretches, years ago. He had a particular jerky way of doing sit-ups. I remember thinking he was doing it wrong, he was so fast as he lifted his back off the carpeted floor. Maybe i can even hear his breathing pattern. My dad liked to wear black fuzzy sweatbands like an athlete. He liked to do pull-ups on the pull-up bar in the laundry room door frame. He had that crunching tool that you squeeze in your fist for strong hand muscles. In the memory, i’m on the floor, too, from floor level, watching. At my eye’s reach, the legs of the coffee table, the tv table. I’m not actually there. I’m on the black rug, unable to move. Why am i watching him, in the back of my mind, of the past? The memory detaches me from my life, when i need to be taking care of myself.