NaPoWriMo Day 2

Fifty-cent words, yoga, and the inner "nope"

Hi again! Day two of thirty in this free-writing, write-along experiment.

I’ll repeat what I put in the first post—the rules I’m making up are as follows:

• write something every day, no particular amount

• start writing, do not pause or go back, do not edit (except, putting it on Substack, I will punctuate with line-breaks and will correct spelling so as not to be a complete barbarian toward someone who might actually try to read)

• no disclaimers: what comes out is the point, even if it’s . . . dumb? weird? alarming? Hey, one person’s dumb, weird, and alarming is another person’s favorite film/novel/poem, so . . . let’s have at it!

Today, I started with the following prompt, which came from the same source as yesterday’s: “Crepuscular—relating to twilight. Incorporate the word crepuscular.”

Photo by Jenn Brown

In the yoga room flute music 
high notes ring in the ears without hurting 
it's kind in here 
enough 
rolls of blankets in shelves and more blankets 
each person has a rectangle of floor padded bolstered 
hard floor made soft enough to lie down on 
each person a little fort of pillows and blankets not to wall off 
but to ease themselves sitting or lying on the floor 
that is not at all shaped like a body 
it's the opposite of a body 
unyielding cold unmoving 
we come into the room and there are spray bottles 
with scents in them of rose and ylangylang and vetiver 
and lavender and neroli 
flowers 
and what 
i don’t know 
flowers in other languages i suppose 
but they sound fancier and more powerful 
than daisy and buttercup 
they sound to me magical or made up in a legend 
myrrh and frankincense patchouli 
as if they should be carried in silk and cushioned boxes 
gently so as not to disturb the spell they cast 
i am not susceptible 
i have a voice inside that says no to everything 
no to magic no to spells no to softness and blankets 
to keep me warm during the still poses of a yoga class 
meant to still me 
i bring this voice this person in me 
to the class unwilling 
all the way there she resists 
she wants to turn around and go home where it's safe 
she hates the wind in her face on the walk to the studio 
she hates the moment of greeting the teacher 
of stepping past the forts of the other students 
to place her mat and blanket 
and mound of bolsters and blocks 
in her own corner of the twilight room 
today the room is bright 
the springtime has lengthened the light by now 
and there’s a lightness in the room that feels warm and alive 
I like it 
I do 
and the music 
you’ve heard it before 
the music they always play in yoga rooms 
the high and low flute sounds so similar to voices 
we are flutes but soft pliable ones air in a tube vibrating 
how strange we are how strange i am 
how strange it is to build 
a ramp of bolsters 
cover it in soft blankets and myself too 
and drape myself over it to be still 
in this configuration 
in a room of others eyes closed 
listening to the teacher's slow voice saying 
you can rest your hand on your heart if you want to 
in the lowering light the windows shone 
bright blue at first from my angle on the floor 
they’re all sky and lit and when i open my eyes 
again after the first and second stillnesses 
they're dimmer still aglow 
they’re 
crepuscular is the word 
that arises like a diagnosis 
it's the no-voice in me 
that keeps the catalog of words 
it hangs there 
crepuscular
the word in the dimming light 
looking nothing like the light 
with none of the magic to my ear 
it's a whisper with hard edges 
it sounds like it means something disgusting 
unwanted oozing and contagious 
a little bit 
the voice of reason 
that's who it is or thinks she is 
chuckles 
she thinks it's funny to poke a hole 
in the soft twilight stillness 
with the edges of a word that's both right 
and wrong at once and that’s where it ends 
the class gathers haystacks of blankets 
rolls them into tight bales 
packs them away 
i stuff my bolster into the wall of bolsters 
creep sockfooted into the hallway 
where my shoes wait 
creep softly into the crepuscular air 
one last shaft of sun cutting across 
the lid of the grocery store into my eye 
i turn my back to it and walk home in the dusk 
the stillness still inside