Experimental Essay

Outer Beauty

(inspired by David Shields' Life Story, available in 'The Next American Essay', ed. John D'Agata)

Clothes make the man. I´m not cynical, I´m just experienced. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, of the beer holder, and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye. But if you don´t like what I´m wearing... feel free to undress me! My wild oats have turned to shredded wheat. Wrinkled was not one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up. You don´t get a body like this by working out. Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.

So, life has a hill. Get over it!

Always remember you´re unique... Just like everyone else. Ham and Eggs – a day's work for a chicken; a lifetime commitment for a pig. I may not be right, but I can sure sound like it. If we are what we eat, then I´m fast, cheap and easy. Size does matter! I never fake a sarcasm. If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular? Weapons of mass distraction. Whisky tango foxtrot. Upon the advice of my attorney, my shirt bears no message at this time. Never judge a book by it´s cover.

reflection:

I really enjoyed David Shield's Life Story, which was a narrative entirely composed out of novelty bumper plates (I think!). I tried to do the same, this time using t-shirt slogans to create a piece about beauty.

extract from assignment

Learning to Breathe

Are you ok?

Yes. No. I’m fine. It’s just tough in this position.

Well, remember to breathe ok. And don’t push yourself.

I stretch out, feel the strain on the backs of my knees. My face red and the blood thumping. I’ve forgotten to breathe.

Inhale.

Eyes on the mat, my hands splayed before me. Chipped nail varnish. Trace the folds of my knuckles, the lines of my life. But those are on your palm. Was it written there? What is written there?

And breathe out. Now bring the right leg forward and stretch your neck to the sky.

My legs feel stuck but I drag one forward in a daring move, ungraceful. My neck is taught as I tilt it back, but the stretch is in my fingers, grappling with the floor. I glance at Chellsy, who seems to fit perfectly into the instructor's mold, a smooth curve running the contours of her back. I glance further round the room, my eyes stretching beyond their periphery. Everyone looks perfect.

Neck to the sky.

I jerk back into position. It´s agony now, the V-spread of my hand about to implode outwards. A lyric lingers. Se mi rilasso, collasso. Reflective pronouns.

Breathe in. Bring your arms to your knee and open your chest wide to the side.

Easier now, I feel the balance and take a few more breaths than necessary. My head is hot, a teardrop of sweat trickles down my brow.

Have you done yoga before? She had asked.

Once, I had said.

Exhala profunda. Now work your way back through the movements to standing.

I glide awkwardly through each position, racing back to the start when I was upright; where I was sure of my balance. But I arrive and it’s not as it seems, not as I had hoped. The arms above my head begin to buckle and white spots flash in my eyes, sending everyone sideways. The sweat is now a steady stream.

Stop. Blink. Breathe.

Do the same movements again, this time with your left leg forward.

I swoop my arms in an arc and the room balloons in my vision. I close my eyes and push into downward facing dog. But I stay there, obedient to my body. It calls to me, to stand up and run away. I feel my hands clammy beneath me, my arms shaking, trying to support me. I will not give up. I will push through this, push my leg forward and push my chest open and feel the air rush slowly into my lungs. I can do anything I put my mind to.

Inhala profu –

But then my knees give way and my head spins out of control. I fall to the floor and lie in a kneeling ball, my heart galloping ahead of me. I grab hold of my feet and breathe hard into the mat. Fue pánico, puro pánico. The sweat mixes with tears and I don’t know what is happening.

¿Estás bien?

I wipe away my woe and look up with a meek smile.

Yes, sorry. I´ve, - em -, I´ve had a cold recently and I think this is maybe working the last of it through me.

I move my hands to let my body speak. I can feel my mouth asking to be excused, but she encourages me back into a kneeling ball.

Let your body relax and don´t push it. Continue when you´re ready. Just breathe.

That´s what it´s all about really. Learning to breathe. In...and out. In....and out. Inhaling Qs and exhaling Rs. I sink into the floor, my eyes closed to the world. Q. R. Q. R. What must they be thinking of me? What must Chellsy be thinking? I can explain to her, she´ll understand. It wasn´t like this the first time, Chels, I was good then. I even did a shoulder stand! This is just a glitch. A blip. I haven´t been feeling well, you see.

My mind races, fractured. The low rumble of thoughts as they approach the forefront of my mind. The grammar of memory. Epanaleptic excuses. But some of them are negative. Some of them I don´t want. Not active, but passive. Judgment will be passed on me, on my failings, on my inability to articulate my body. The impediment of my orthoepy. But the fault wasn´t mine. It lay with someone else, with someplace else. It could be worse though. You, they may not have seen.

Now we´ll do some floor poses. Let´s start with the Butterfly Asana. In a seated position, hold the soles or toes of your feet and push...

And so I am not there, invisible as they continue. Forgotten rubble on the floor, the remains of yesterday. But if they notice you, they would clear you away. Nobody likes a visual reminder. But isn´t that what we do? Create monuments, install museums, plant poppies. To download our memories into reality, to Kindle them.

So I here I lie, the tomb to the fallen yogini.

And yet, I live.

Week 4: Flash Fiction

Blether

Leaving his friends, he came out of the station and looked around the empty streets. Out of the early morning haze, he saw a woman hobbling towards him, muttering under her breath. There was no one else. He approached her, readjusting the backpack on his shoulder.

“Sorry, hi there. I don't suppose you'd know where I could buy some really thick wooly pyjamas?” he said. She paused in her muttering and looked up at the boy. He was a tall lad, a little rough around the face with dark bags under his eyes. She caught the whiff of the night before on his breath. She cackled lightly.

“Hud somethin' tae bevvy lest nicht? Cheeky. An' whaur ye aff tae wi' 'at poke? Hikin' frae th' looks ay yer sheen. Sae pijamas? Lit me hink... mah mukker ary booght some nae tay lang ago, a bonnie blue pair gart ay lambs wool aye, och noo whaur was it? doon near joseph´s ur, nae,bide, aye doon by th' boats, th' docks. Bein sunday its closed thocht, but jist knock oan th' duir, he will answer,” she said tipping her head towards the town. She smiled at the boy, who looked bewildered. Lowlanders, she thought.

“The docks?” he ventured.

“Aye, th' docks. Gang doon 'at brae, an' 'en straecht doon pest th'...” She indicated with her hands in that helpful way as strangers do, but for the life of him he had no clue what she was saying. He thanked her and headed off in the vague direction she had pointed.

He looked at his watch as he descended the cobbled high street and picked up speed; ten minutes until the connection. He twisted and turned down various streets, following the smell of the sea. He only past a few people as he went, setting up their Saturday stalls in the cold air. On one last turn he emerged at the docks. A lonely fishing boat was moored at the side, a solitary seagull standing guard on the mast above. He looked left, right. Had she mentioned a name? A man in a grey woolly hat was walking along the shore front further up. The boy looked left again and started along the bay, frantic for the shop. He reached a row of houses with windblown flower boxes. He turned and ran back, now passing the seagull and in the other direction. No luck. His heart was racing; six minutes. The man in the hat was closer now. The boy dashed towards him. But before he got a word out, the man looked at him with his weathered face and smiled.

“Ye can buy pyjamas ower thaur,” he said.