Caper Away Productions

He feels the carpet beneath his bare feet. He scrunches his toes. Up and down, up and down, feeling the short fibers. He moves his shoulders up and down, now, small motions but then increasing in height as the opening beats of the song rise in volume. He closes his eyes, feeling the motion of his shoulders and the muscles of his back tensing and releasing beneath the fabric of his loose, buttoned up shirt. Each rise of toe and shoulders is timed to the beat. Starting to feel it, but not wanting to think it. The lone, repeating beat is joined by strings and then horns. This song feels old and yet sounds new. He does not know how music is made. He has never touched an instrument. He cannot articulate how music makes him feel or why it makes him feel. Foot goes back, arms go up, the tempo increases and he can’t make his legs move in the way he sees it in his mind. He stops. He rolls his shoulders and does a bob of the head to get back into the tempo. He feels the moment is right and starts a fraction too late. He returns to his first position. He checks himself in the mirror. He grimaces at the lankiness of his limbs and the swirl of broom bristle hair that never behaves. He moves his legs in a slow approximation of what he wants to accomplish and likes the way the loose legs of his trousers flow. He nods to himself. He closes his eyes. He breathes. He feels the beats playing along the surface of his mind, the repeated thumps and perfectly timed swirls teasing his limbs. Move. Move. He feels the spot. He enters the music. He missteps. He resets. He nods. He enters. He feels it. He loses it. He shakes his head. He hits a string of moves that feels right and in feeling it he is too aware and loses the feeling. He wipes sweat from his brow. He tries again. He tries too hard. He berates himself. He tries less hard. It works. For a moment. He restarts the song in order to restart himself. He closes his eyes and sees her. Lights of many colours chase shadows across her features. She is among a crowd and yet she is one. Her motions are small, restrained, and yet confident. There is little repetition to way she reacts to the music. To him she appears unaware of everything around her. She is fully in the music. His toes scrunch. He shoulders rise and fall. Sweat rolls down his back. He picks a spot. He enters. He fails. He resets. He sees her. He feels the gym wall against his back. He watches. He resets. He enters. He fails. He resets. He enters. He fails. He resets. He enters. He fails.

[A warm-up is 15 minutes of writing. No self-editing is the goal. Just 15 minutes hammering on the keys. After 15 minutes, I am allowed to clean up spelling and grammar errors, but the rest must stay as is. Similar to my previous (abandoned) ritual called “20 Minutes.”]

My slippers look like garbage. If someone were to find these in their yard, in their garage, or in their home they would pick one up gingerly with two fingers. Their face would be scrunched up in disgust, eyes pinched and nose wrinkled. They would examine this slipper in the same manner in which they would inspect a dead bird discovered in the shallow grass of a suburban alley. There is equal parts revulsion and curiosity. In the end, revulsion wins the day and the bird is dropped back into the grass. Hands are wiped on pants. The walk continues.

These slippers look like garbage when lying empty on the floor. These knitted, craft fair specials were once rich with contrasting colors. Black yarn amid light tan with the occasional brown. In parts, there is pattern, but in other areas the pattern is forgotten or perhaps mishandled. The effect reinforces that these slippers were made by hand. But now more than two years later the tans are not so tan– certainly not so brightly, freshly tan. There is a look of dirtiness about these foot warmers. This is justified since these have never been in the wash. Too likely to fall part.

Skin touches the floor even when in these slippers. A big hole worn through the left; a slightly smaller one in the right. Horribly stretched, these slide on the feet, twisting at the ankle when walking. Thus when worn these have a sloppy, unsightly appearance.

But oh so comfy. So comforting when more than the feet need comfort.

So these slippers shall endure.

[My warm-up for the week is writing about things I can see from where I write. A warm-up is 15 minutes of writing. No self-editing is the goal. Just 15 minutes hammering on the keys. After 15 minutes, I am allowed to clean up spelling and grammar errors, but the rest must stay as is. Similar to my previous (abandoned) ritual called “20 Minutes.”]