While excavating for movement, we cannot underestimate the history that lies inside muscles and bones. The heavy breath drawing down our diaphragm, that constant pressure to assimilate leaving thick February fog shape hopelessness in the gravity of ribs.
On a day when Kristopher and I do not work together, a deep anxiety takes hold. It seems we have mined too deep, or perhaps it’s the lack of endorphins released as there has been no physical movement. The anxiety on this day is so overwhelming that I can’t leave the room that I’m staying in and I barely eat. I have a sense of guilt about being in New York and being unwell, about failing to attend the vogue ball that evening. I am trapped inside my head with a fear that something bad is going to happen.
I wake up the next morning feeling somewhat better. I remember how important good health is. I remember what it takes for me to perform works that delve into painful histories. I remember that this body and so many like it, are a sight of silent trauma rained upon us from patriarchy and white supremacy and that these bodies should be handled with care.
The hoop drops again, she defiantly picks it up and spins the hoop around her body, hooping faster and faster, the drone builds in both speed and volume to match her movements. When she is ready she stops the hoop and throws it to the floor.
