Self taught circus

An update on my extremely low and creaking silks update, teaching myself at home. This isn’t so much a routine as just seeing wheres best to move to.

I think my splits and layout/back balance are improving. I no longer splat on the floor after that gazelle thing.
I think in another universe maybe I could perform this low and some nook and cranny of a festival or venue….
aerial dance daily impro





Aerial dance experimenting

After an entire week of screwing up every move ever tried on my stupidly low silks i found a way to get from hanging in the loop to a salto type thing. Excuse the dodgyness of it in the video but I think it might lead somewhere other than stuck in a knot.

Rig is creaking like a fishing rod hauling a whale. Very scared it will snap.

If anyone has somewhere i can try this at the same height with loop that doesnt require inductions and insurance PLEASE let me know.

Failing that anyone making/selling low yoga/aerial hoop rigs get in touch.

P.S how do i get out of this move?

Literature Can Not Be a Direct Expression

So I wrote a fairly rubbish essay I was bored with arguing
about the Beat writers and how they didn’t need high priced cookie
cutter writing workshops and university to get their writing out
there. My feedback was that I was arguing for a form of writing
that is a direct form of expression and that it is hard to imagine
a situation where this would be possible! I used Allen ginsbergs
Howl as example. So Howl contains no expression? The fact it was
first known by reading aloud not in a book bore no expression? I
guess when Keats wrote poetry for Fanny Braun it was just a
marketing plan? When Sylvia Plath wrote Mirror she was just
thinking of her pay cheque and not her age? Seriously- what the
fuck? If it is impossible for writing to ever be a form of direct
expression then I sincerely hope literature is abolished as a
taught. and expensively paid for,academic subject. You see everyone
outside the ‘institution’ agreed with me that university writing
workshops sanitized literature. Of course writing this to those in
the institution with their 32k wages is never going to convince
them. I went to study literature for a bucket list experience of
using my tiny intellect and being an academic. But now that I can’t
even find the money to continue study I wonder what the point of
clinical, formally picking at literature is even for. I wish I’d
picked history and uncovered secrets, got a job at Kew Palace. But
no, I am reading books and trying to prove that I understand what
I’ve read for no outcome or reason. We aren’t even allowed to write
essays in our own style it has to rigidly fit formal criteria yet
we study essays by Adorno and Marinetti whio are still in print but
our essays must all fit the same pigeon hole. It’s confusing
because I enjoy the course, the subject matter. Going through the
Waste Land with Michael was really fascinating and the first time I
didn’t feel thick as shit at something. But do you agree? Can
writing not possibly be direct expression. Because that poem I
wrote a few blogs back was. I wrote it jnstantly in one go to
express my childhood, i wrote it to my brother not to my publusher
or audience. Yet to university lecturers this all falls

Set backs and failings

After weeks of improving my flexibility, doing the splits and kicking my head I’ve injured my back again. Can’t even touch my toes.

Doing aerial dance as low as I do because of long term back probs I needed my flexibility to look better then a fat girl doing beginner tricks. Not that anyone is watching. Jacksons Lane was probably my last ever performance.

I can’t take classes because silks is all about climbing heights and big drops my spine can’t take.

There is nowhere to experiment at my own limits as I have to be at an ‘advanced level’ to do so. And nowhere has a loop and silks joined together which avoids me having to strain to invert which supports me tipping over.

At home the hammock frame I hang on creaks horribly I am certain it will snap and I will break my neck alone.

Why is everything always against me?

Poetry: Playing at Stalks

The fields were ours, all plenty and made believed, Poppy,
Barley, Rape seed, daisy stalks around my wrist, And pea pods stolen and cabbage
leaf. We knew every tree by name, our names for them, Felt every
nettle lick on the day I fell with my bike from earth made bridge
to trolls ditch. I had learnt to ride it in those fields, Believing
dad still held the back of the seat to prevent tipping in tracker
marks. We knew every track and walked shoulder deep in snow-fill
ditches of snow thats never returned. You broke my nose when we
tried to play cricket and I didn’t see the ball, Blood on the corn.
Was it wheat or barley then? Blood on the corn as we ran, Through
shaven crop of yellows to claim freshly rolled bales as our
thrones, After school, when the sun was going down. All gone twin
brother, Under time and the fields covered with stone, New roads,
In the places we used to play and run.

Another bend…

…in the long long road to flexibility. I am using my aerial net to support my backbens and found I CAN get on my elbows.

This is not cheating it is support my dodgy back welcomes and without it I wouldn’t bend further. Everything I do after is just boredom messing around.

My Literary Disaster

It was the last assignment of the last day of the semester and I screwed it up in all its nonchalant relinquishing of failure.

The presentation should have been a persuasion that Hunter S Thompson’s make believe and lies are what all literature should have and to quit scrutinising reality- it’s all a story.

I’m telling you this and it really happened, but I’m picking the words and making it a story.

The night before I memorised most of it to a stop watch like a theatre script.

On the day I typed it all and made handouts, playing at teacher, playing at intellects.

Nothing would print. Forget the handouts, email it to my Kindle.

I couldn’t log back in to the computers in 2buildings. When I did all my work had vanished.

So after a 15minute walk to another campus while the presentations had started, phoning IT maintenance, finding another machine, choking, power walking back to class…..

I sat on the desk in my glittery converse shoes and talked of disjointed pieces of ill forgotten script from fatigue and nerves.

Thompson would have applauded my mashed up brain.

A few sentences in I got that feeling like the dreams of going to school naked and just gave up because I knew no one wanted to hear my babbling of acid trips and Cadillacs.

They probably think I was high. I hate drugs yet am engrossed in the Beatniks and Thompson’s highs and farcical paranoia.

Why do I study dead men who wrote books with no career path? It’s all there to read, explained better than I can. What do I do with dead junky writers?

I started this course loving the Brontes wanting to teach.

I’ve turned into Ezra Pounds dirty socks.

My tastes are so oblique I spent 2 hours in Waterstones despondent at the choice. Where is the Cantos, The Waste Land among thousands of crimes and failed marriages and Hobbits?

I settled for Kerouac and Burroughs fiction version of their friend murdering an infatuated English teacher, long unpublished.

Weirdly I like more poets than authors; Plath, Eliot, Pound, Ginsberg – all fill my bag and Starbuck table.

What use do I find to all this study and revelations everyone else already read?

Mega Stretching She-Ra update

(Sorry this has got really long…..) Amazingly I’ve kept
up my daily stretching with only one day missed to finish epic
essays on Beatniks. So heres what I’ve found with my body…
really isn’t that amazing but it is bendable. After years of physio
for a spondy (slipped backbone) and not being able to get to a low
shelf in the grocery store without clinging the shelf above and
creaking like a granny, I now have no back pain or stiffness. You’d
think arching to my limit would hurt but only the day off made me
stiff again. I can get my left foot to my head behind me! Well
kinda. It only works lying on my front, leg in a loop of webbing
and pulling it. Again there is no more pain or strain than bendin a
finger. Why does it not work without strap? My back is hardly
arched when I do this. The right leg won’t do the same. Trying to
touch head and feet by keeping thighs on floor. Arching back in
cobra, gets me nowhere. I am an inch from proper splits. I am
always and forever an inch from the splits. Seated forward bends,
one leg bent and getting face to knee on straight leg is the
greatest change in flexibility and the cosiest most lovely comfort
‘hello kneeee’ Bridges are like lifting up a wrestler with my
breasts and are mostly avoided. GOALS Get foot to head doing aerial
dance inverted. Do splits inside aerial net. Do hula hoop on foot
into an elbow stand (yeah right I wish). Keep stretching lovelies
no matter how big you are. Because kissing your own knees and
scratching your head with your toes is way better than jogging and
you get to lay down and still work out! Ta ta