the last 100 meters of Free Fall
often anglicised as /ɑn pwɛ̃t/ or /ɑn pɔɪnt/) is the action of rising to the tips of the toes while performing steps from ballet. Also known as pointe work, it is performed using hard-toed and stiff-shanked pointe shoes. Dancing en pointe requires considerable strength and skill and is a central part of a female ballet dancer's training and repertory. To a lesser extent, pointe work is also practiced by male dancers.
the training, you see, is done. en pointe no longer fits... like an old dress thats out of style and tight of breast and hip.
have you ever parachuted? i did so half a dozen times back when i was in school in England. it was somewhere between London and Brighton, and the sky was a shade of blue you can only taste at high altitude. it was a long trainride down, and the trainride back, endorphins flowing in Thames tide so fast made the trip back a place to rub up against your female friend, and then a cough, excuse us, to the restroom, to bang in glory gainst the sink. for 3 days, high. eggs chips beans and toast is still my favorite meal because its the first thing i ate upon return to the ground.
there is a rush, not measurable, but lasting a good minute before the chute opens. your flesh peels off from your heart. it beats in your ears, in your eyes, in your toes, and every other extremeity, even those that dont fit you. the wind is soundlessly deafening. this warbling rush of falling into the place sound has yet to catch up to. the chute, then, opens...
you dont get jerked back like you see on film. thats the cameraman still free falling to get the moment captured. you do, however, slow quickly down.
its silent. and the sky runs spectrums of colors over the curve of what you can see of the world, sorta like the aurora boreaais. time stops and you look up to make sure your mushroom is deployed, and your hands find the toggles. this aint, you realize, no video game.
English countryside is very neatly subdivided. quite unlike flying in a plane over the Americas. stone fences painstakingly built over centuries stand out at this altitude with so much greater influence upon a gravity you've only newly been born into.... and things make sense.
it was often joked among my jumping pals that Tay was always first out of the plane, and with such a huge grin that we better make sure she's strapped in.
rail food on the journey home was the best meal ever.
sex in the restroom of the train car was.... well, who could expect my wife to successfully survive the coital propostion of matrimony?
before you can dive into the sky, you have to go through training. our trainer was a dry yet brash young man who, at the time, was older than us. you were taught how to drop and roll, you were taught how to pull in your chute before a mighty wind might deploy you into a nearby barnshed.ou were taught how to smack the emergency chute that, like a woman finding herself suddenly preggers, had an uncomfortable addtion pasted to her belly. "what happens if your chute doesnt deploy," one student asked, "and then you pound your emergency chute, and it doesnt deploy either?"
our instructor raised a well plucked arched eyebrow (spectactular): "Guess its just not your day, then."
you silly Brits.
at the end, watching barns and cottages come into focus, watching land stretch out, feeling wind in your ears and mouth and eyes, you reach the last hundred meters. and things speed up.
suddenly the endorphins get kicked over into double-time as adrenamel floods your sys, and the ground is coming so fast you can see the individual blades.....
so fast, then its crash, and you realize you've bent your knees, then its, again, real time, gather the chute before wind uses it to suck you into the side of a barn.
i have been free falling and drifting for 5 years now.
these days, every day i wake, its that last 100 meters fast forward thing. duck and roll. gather fabric.
my lj name no longer fits.
i'm not the person i was when i started this.
i'm not friends with many on my blogger f-flist, and i'm better friends ever than i imagined with people whose faces i've not been able to reach my fingertips out to and stroke their cheeks, and look deep into their eyes.
i thought New Orleans was my home, then the free fall started again, then the harsh landing and the rolling and, cuz you blink when you hit earth again, eyes squeezed shut, i opened them, and found myself living in Dallas.
wha hoppening heah?
sheeyite.!!!!
today i worked and i was so tired. i worked with my best work friend, Dex, and my good work friend, Todd, and my cat friend, Kat who meows loud enough to be heard over in produce, across our quarter mile long store. it was slow and lewd and exhausting, and then when it came time to clock out, Todd and Dex and i drove over to a male gay bar called The Hidden Door, a few blocks down on Lemmon.
i love my gay friends dearly, even more in some ways than my straight friends. but to walk into a beat up ol' jernt that's 28 years old totally devoid of the historic interaction that has infused said interaction, pheremones, hormones, antegens, passions, wants, desires, fantasies, successful hook-ups in dark corners, cigar smoke, pool chalk, etc .... i just felt homesick.
i was good. lots of stories were shared. i spent a lot of time trying to avoid the contact of hungry man eyes that were, everywhere i looked, focussed on me.
when we got there, a guy Todd knows, came up and said hi, then said i had pretty hair, and then made an overt leaning back gesture, and said, "Nice ass, too."
this was so wrong on so many planes, all i could do was laugh. he was an obvious junkie, he thought me male (sweaty Tshirt under sexy leather biker jacket, bad hat head hair... i could see that).... but, hell... i wear baggy jeans to work. if my ass looks good in them, to male or female predators, imagine if i'd been in my tight sexy ones!
i was eye raped about a dozen times in the first five minutes. as an introvert, i watch people, and measure being watched as well.
we had 3 rounds for the 3 of us, and mine was the last to pay for. they dont take bank cards, but had an ATM near the pool tables.
i went to use it, but having not been there before, and it being very dark inside, (we were sitting on the mostly unused patio area, it was cool and sunny, it took me a few secs to figure out how to ... insert... my card.
before i could figure that out, however, the back end of a pool cue found its way between my still jeaned legs.
having come from a long line of pool players, i thought i was simply in the way, and actually, as i turned around, apologized for interrupting this gentleman's game.
someone snickered.
then the guy who had the shot walked about 180 degrees around the table to take it.
he'd not found my ass by accident. or even in the name of sport.
he just saw a femme *boi*... which means in this jungle cub, Bottom... and shoved his poolcue as far up my ass as my jeans (not me) would let him.
all i could really do was... roll my eyes.
you're brilliant. a true fucking Casanova.
this is what i wanted to say.
its the last bend on the final twirl of the handles guiding wind drift through my parachute.
when we hit the ground, you toothless redneck faggot, i'll kick your jaw round backwards. then we'll have a discussion. oh...
wait...
you wont be able to.
will you?
kiss kiss...
i chose "en_pointe" because it was ballet. a move of training. a thing to aspire to.
now i am here.
i'm fucking done aspiring, bitches.
to those i've loved the most, its time for you to start getting me.
to those i loved less, its time for you to start getting me.
i am a butch femme. i have a huge girly side, but thats not all i am.
whatever box you've been trained to accept, i am too fucking fat to fit into it.
if you are female, and you wake up some mornings, and just cant see putting on makeup to run to the fucking gas station to fill up the tank, then who the fuck are you to assume that i have to put makup on, just to be me?
if you are male, and enjoy sex with women... stop objectifying me, degrading me with your perceptions. i can only please you if you are ready for new ideas of pleasure to exist. otherwise, what is your left hand for?
or right hand. ambidextrity has such more positive inclusions.
you know what i'm really fucking tired of?
i'm tired of waiting on women, and having the mental footnote pop into my head that says, "i'm so much more attractive than you."
do you have any idea how much that sucks to have to deal with that? i sincerely doubt you do.
wouldnt it be nice if i could just be a girl in the world, relatively happy, relatively pursued in flattering (and empowering in a way i wouldnt ever consider taking advantage of) ways?
wouldnt it be nice if you just fucking made half a mental note to even try to get my fucking pronouns right? instead of degrading me with your self-centered lack of fucking concern to how being called "he" stabs me in the gut like a fucking chef's knife?
is it really that much to ask that you address your own fucking dichotomatic dysphoriia, brought on by social training, conditioning, and compliance, to simply say.... "oh, Tay might be in flannel and jeans but she is a girl", no emphasis?
jesus, people.
i look over this spectacular, wonderful, inspiring friends list of mine, and most of you are in one way or bakers' dozen QUEER!
but those of you who are not transsexual still mostly do it, at the drop of an unconcious thinking second of your stylist ten gallon beret.
i've been reading this book on transsexuals (as you well know) for a couple weeks now.
wouldnt it be nice if you stopped fitting into the cliches of predictability you simply do?
wouldnt you fucking benefit from growing, for a fucking change?
the more you dive into what you think you are, the more you inhibit the free falling growith of someone different than you.
the more you dont think, the more you impose your non-Thought.
its time for that to stop.
NOW!
jump out a plane and feel it.
and if you do, and then don't, jump out one again. without the chute.
(copyright 1-1-2008 TThinc Enterprises)
the training, you see, is done. en pointe no longer fits... like an old dress thats out of style and tight of breast and hip.
have you ever parachuted? i did so half a dozen times back when i was in school in England. it was somewhere between London and Brighton, and the sky was a shade of blue you can only taste at high altitude. it was a long trainride down, and the trainride back, endorphins flowing in Thames tide so fast made the trip back a place to rub up against your female friend, and then a cough, excuse us, to the restroom, to bang in glory gainst the sink. for 3 days, high. eggs chips beans and toast is still my favorite meal because its the first thing i ate upon return to the ground.
there is a rush, not measurable, but lasting a good minute before the chute opens. your flesh peels off from your heart. it beats in your ears, in your eyes, in your toes, and every other extremeity, even those that dont fit you. the wind is soundlessly deafening. this warbling rush of falling into the place sound has yet to catch up to. the chute, then, opens...
you dont get jerked back like you see on film. thats the cameraman still free falling to get the moment captured. you do, however, slow quickly down.
its silent. and the sky runs spectrums of colors over the curve of what you can see of the world, sorta like the aurora boreaais. time stops and you look up to make sure your mushroom is deployed, and your hands find the toggles. this aint, you realize, no video game.
English countryside is very neatly subdivided. quite unlike flying in a plane over the Americas. stone fences painstakingly built over centuries stand out at this altitude with so much greater influence upon a gravity you've only newly been born into.... and things make sense.
it was often joked among my jumping pals that Tay was always first out of the plane, and with such a huge grin that we better make sure she's strapped in.
rail food on the journey home was the best meal ever.
sex in the restroom of the train car was.... well, who could expect my wife to successfully survive the coital propostion of matrimony?
before you can dive into the sky, you have to go through training. our trainer was a dry yet brash young man who, at the time, was older than us. you were taught how to drop and roll, you were taught how to pull in your chute before a mighty wind might deploy you into a nearby barnshed.ou were taught how to smack the emergency chute that, like a woman finding herself suddenly preggers, had an uncomfortable addtion pasted to her belly. "what happens if your chute doesnt deploy," one student asked, "and then you pound your emergency chute, and it doesnt deploy either?"
our instructor raised a well plucked arched eyebrow (spectactular): "Guess its just not your day, then."
you silly Brits.
at the end, watching barns and cottages come into focus, watching land stretch out, feeling wind in your ears and mouth and eyes, you reach the last hundred meters. and things speed up.
suddenly the endorphins get kicked over into double-time as adrenamel floods your sys, and the ground is coming so fast you can see the individual blades.....
so fast, then its crash, and you realize you've bent your knees, then its, again, real time, gather the chute before wind uses it to suck you into the side of a barn.
i have been free falling and drifting for 5 years now.
these days, every day i wake, its that last 100 meters fast forward thing. duck and roll. gather fabric.
my lj name no longer fits.
i'm not the person i was when i started this.
i'm not friends with many on my blogger f-flist, and i'm better friends ever than i imagined with people whose faces i've not been able to reach my fingertips out to and stroke their cheeks, and look deep into their eyes.
i thought New Orleans was my home, then the free fall started again, then the harsh landing and the rolling and, cuz you blink when you hit earth again, eyes squeezed shut, i opened them, and found myself living in Dallas.
wha hoppening heah?
sheeyite.!!!!
today i worked and i was so tired. i worked with my best work friend, Dex, and my good work friend, Todd, and my cat friend, Kat who meows loud enough to be heard over in produce, across our quarter mile long store. it was slow and lewd and exhausting, and then when it came time to clock out, Todd and Dex and i drove over to a male gay bar called The Hidden Door, a few blocks down on Lemmon.
i love my gay friends dearly, even more in some ways than my straight friends. but to walk into a beat up ol' jernt that's 28 years old totally devoid of the historic interaction that has infused said interaction, pheremones, hormones, antegens, passions, wants, desires, fantasies, successful hook-ups in dark corners, cigar smoke, pool chalk, etc .... i just felt homesick.
i was good. lots of stories were shared. i spent a lot of time trying to avoid the contact of hungry man eyes that were, everywhere i looked, focussed on me.
when we got there, a guy Todd knows, came up and said hi, then said i had pretty hair, and then made an overt leaning back gesture, and said, "Nice ass, too."
this was so wrong on so many planes, all i could do was laugh. he was an obvious junkie, he thought me male (sweaty Tshirt under sexy leather biker jacket, bad hat head hair... i could see that).... but, hell... i wear baggy jeans to work. if my ass looks good in them, to male or female predators, imagine if i'd been in my tight sexy ones!
i was eye raped about a dozen times in the first five minutes. as an introvert, i watch people, and measure being watched as well.
we had 3 rounds for the 3 of us, and mine was the last to pay for. they dont take bank cards, but had an ATM near the pool tables.
i went to use it, but having not been there before, and it being very dark inside, (we were sitting on the mostly unused patio area, it was cool and sunny, it took me a few secs to figure out how to ... insert... my card.
before i could figure that out, however, the back end of a pool cue found its way between my still jeaned legs.
having come from a long line of pool players, i thought i was simply in the way, and actually, as i turned around, apologized for interrupting this gentleman's game.
someone snickered.
then the guy who had the shot walked about 180 degrees around the table to take it.
he'd not found my ass by accident. or even in the name of sport.
he just saw a femme *boi*... which means in this jungle cub, Bottom... and shoved his poolcue as far up my ass as my jeans (not me) would let him.
all i could really do was... roll my eyes.
you're brilliant. a true fucking Casanova.
this is what i wanted to say.
its the last bend on the final twirl of the handles guiding wind drift through my parachute.
when we hit the ground, you toothless redneck faggot, i'll kick your jaw round backwards. then we'll have a discussion. oh...
wait...
you wont be able to.
will you?
kiss kiss...
i chose "en_pointe" because it was ballet. a move of training. a thing to aspire to.
now i am here.
i'm fucking done aspiring, bitches.
to those i've loved the most, its time for you to start getting me.
to those i loved less, its time for you to start getting me.
i am a butch femme. i have a huge girly side, but thats not all i am.
whatever box you've been trained to accept, i am too fucking fat to fit into it.
if you are female, and you wake up some mornings, and just cant see putting on makeup to run to the fucking gas station to fill up the tank, then who the fuck are you to assume that i have to put makup on, just to be me?
if you are male, and enjoy sex with women... stop objectifying me, degrading me with your perceptions. i can only please you if you are ready for new ideas of pleasure to exist. otherwise, what is your left hand for?
or right hand. ambidextrity has such more positive inclusions.
you know what i'm really fucking tired of?
i'm tired of waiting on women, and having the mental footnote pop into my head that says, "i'm so much more attractive than you."
do you have any idea how much that sucks to have to deal with that? i sincerely doubt you do.
wouldnt it be nice if i could just be a girl in the world, relatively happy, relatively pursued in flattering (and empowering in a way i wouldnt ever consider taking advantage of) ways?
wouldnt it be nice if you just fucking made half a mental note to even try to get my fucking pronouns right? instead of degrading me with your self-centered lack of fucking concern to how being called "he" stabs me in the gut like a fucking chef's knife?
is it really that much to ask that you address your own fucking dichotomatic dysphoriia, brought on by social training, conditioning, and compliance, to simply say.... "oh, Tay might be in flannel and jeans but she is a girl", no emphasis?
jesus, people.
i look over this spectacular, wonderful, inspiring friends list of mine, and most of you are in one way or bakers' dozen QUEER!
but those of you who are not transsexual still mostly do it, at the drop of an unconcious thinking second of your stylist ten gallon beret.
i've been reading this book on transsexuals (as you well know) for a couple weeks now.
wouldnt it be nice if you stopped fitting into the cliches of predictability you simply do?
wouldnt you fucking benefit from growing, for a fucking change?
the more you dive into what you think you are, the more you inhibit the free falling growith of someone different than you.
the more you dont think, the more you impose your non-Thought.
its time for that to stop.
NOW!
jump out a plane and feel it.
and if you do, and then don't, jump out one again. without the chute.
(copyright 1-1-2008 TThinc Enterprises)