The sensation of lacing up a pair of skates. Tightening around the ankles and the leather giving way and the little eye hooks biting into the laces. Pulling it tighter. For no clear reason, I'm floating from ice rink to ice rink, chasing some perfect flat to skate across. My friends keep trying to get me off the ice. They want me to stop skating but they don't understand how perfect and free it is, the moment of drifting across plains of ice. Endless ice. Icefields. Prairies of ice. One friend trying to rip up the skin of the ice, pulling it down in strips. I find another flat.
I loop around, leap in spirals, lean back into curves. I let the air rush through me. I'm leaning back into a spiral. There's nothing but space around me and the delicious pain of movement. Free skate. I don't ever want to stop moving. I only want to lean into the rounds at high speed. So fast you can't see me.
Reflections on publicity
1 week ago