this morning i received photos from surel’s place of my first performance of “relic” as i lay in bed swallowing muscle relaxers and codeine every couple hours and screaming as pain shot down my legs. i have chronic lower back pain, which flares up nonetheless whenever i suffer extreme relational distress. my back pain is the most severe representative of my old traumas. it felt grossly appropriate to receive these memories of me reenacting body monologues while i wept in the future, overthrown, anguished. the body never forgets. 3 nights ago i called my therapist in desperation and she told me that once, her body had gotten so triggered from a stressful and violent situation that her lower back seized up and she couldn’t shit for 7 whole days. what’s the scandinavian word for “horrified but also relieved to have someone nearby who knows your terror?”
learning how to “read” my body monologues with breath and guttural intonation has been a fascinating endeavor that felt freely explored in isolation at surel’s place. now that i’m back in texas for the foreseeable future, however, everything feels harder to access. the safety and comfort involved in open expression is not easily won here, where my daily frantic life abuts my desire for solitude. i’m hoping to pull in a body performance expert i know from the theatre world, and maybe even a body work specialist, to help me find the hems of what is and isn’t possible in this newfound divine language. i have gathered all this lactic acid into knots of calligraphy ink; now, how to release them? if ever i can?