It is funny how muscles remember. Initially they lull you to the illusion there’s not a bother on them and then as the time fades they become bothered and it’s in terribly poxy spots where you barely know you have muscles. They may not even be muscles at all they may be piddly ligaments. They could nearly be someone elses ligaments they’re so foreign to me. Like a little sword fight going on between me bones. A protest against the Olympic lockout.
They have a mad trampoline at the gymnastics facility. It’s the trampoline equiv of forty strength whisky. So powerful it could bounce you head first up a chimney. I’m v interested in the relationship to the knees, head in the proces. You can achieve height easily if you don’t bend your legs. But if you as much as tilt your chin — bow wow wow — you’ll veer sidewards or worse plant your face into a pile of foam. You can lift your hips as high as you like, and make all kinds of fancy shapes, but the tiniest tip of an eyelid and you’re thrown off. It’s amazing to be that high and to feel how a mm could change your fate. Perilous to attempt conversation, tho’ of course we do.
Back to front
[wpvideo 0vRZYMjw]
The Olympics have hassled my front handspring and I have lost the back flip I was so close to landing! 8 weeks, no gymnastics. So sweet, small man filmed this on my phone. There were two where I landed on my arse. I deleted the epic fails, he said. So here you have the less than it was, but never the less … the middle aged, short legged front handspring!
So good to be back. Except for the collapsed wrist and the disheartening realization I am back again at base camp because of the disruption.
On my father’s side of the family I come from Quaker stock. One of my father’s relatives ran a boarding house for theatricals in Manchester or maybe Ashton-under-lyne which Charlie Chaplin once stayed in. I think she may have been the same woman who had an affair with the canal keeper and had three children by different men which at the turn of the century was quite something.
My father’s sister would not tell me this story until I reached the grand old age of 21. She considered it so scandalous.
Had an inspired visit to the Mountain View Cemetery this evening. I’ve been trying to persuade a few folk to accompany me there, but no takers. Unfortunately I did get a bit confused and somehow thought there’d be a car park and ended up driving in, then panicking I wasn’t supposed to drive in, then got myself trapped trying to find a way out.
When I finally found an arrangement and re-entered the place I looked at two parts on either side of the road. I don’t entirely know what I expected to find in there, but it wasn’t what I found. I left with a bunch of questions, which is always very satisfying.
One of which was if your house or childhood home backs on to the graveyard do you wander over and ride your bike or play hockey in it. I noticed a couple strolling through and two adults skateboarding.
There are also great big patches where no one seems to be buried at all and they’re constructing some strange, unattractive breeze block structure whose purpose is unclear. The sign says Mountain View where Vancouver Remembers. But I misread it at first as Mountain View where Vancouver Remains .. and I keep thinking it would make a better sign.
The other night while at an art talk that I found particularly insufferable all I could hear in my head was a wild pounding drumbeat that I’d heard earlier that day while listening to the small man’s composition. I was sat on the floor at the talk, since the space was full and small. It was so aurally and physically uncomfortable, but my feet started doing their own thing.
At one point I realized the talk had become white noise and this pounding drumbeat had taken me over. It was very odd. Claustrophobic yet convenient. I noticed it even began to infringe on the rhythm of my knitting needles.