if you are expecting a post on trapeze training/circus or really anything usually associated with a trapeze, I am not the place to go to. My trapeze is an object I’ve been through the wars with and adore. I use it extremely low combined with improvised movement.
The trapeze hung with a sneer as I swam back home; the only girl who refuses umbrellas.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ It questions with neither pulse or breath.
I just drip.
I went in search of silk and yarn. Your filthy ropes suffice far sweeter. To get out of a hole I have been advised to find a knitting group. I used to love wool, spinning yarn and making sheets of felt in the bath.
Now I recoil from anything wooly, crafty like it is suffocating and screams Spinsterdom.
It quite flatly says ‘you are not dancing’
Feet knit knots in aerial silks and you trapeze knit around my spine. How will yarn hold us up?
There is good intention and reason; I need new friends and people to talk to and work with. So fuelled with iced coffee and waterproof boots I reached a compromise that if I buy silk yarn, something delicate and fairytale-like, I may convince myself to ‘knit’. The shop was closed.
But what to make with hugely expensive tiny balls of japanese silk? What would suit an Ariadne? Can you suggest anything?
The trapeze still sneers, flippantly sugguests its kin are all highly hung (strung?) impressive things. Knitting! it scoffs and nudges the bruise it’s given on the centre of my spine.
‘Oh I’ve not forgotton you,’ I tell it, my soaked hair glued to the velvet around its rope.
I push the opposite rope between my big toe, the rig wearily creaks.
‘Darling there’s a place for us, can we go before I turn to dust’ Joanna Newson sings from phone speakers on the wet carpet.
There is a place for us.
‘Butoh,’ I grin against wet rope….