The muscles simply won't relax. I am forcing myself to sit upright in my chair, the small of my back pressed up against the back of the chair for support. My body wants to curl in upon itself, to hunch over the keyboard. Today I shall find that old yoga ball and inflate it, swapping it out for the chair that goes with my uncle's old library table.
This is the problem with bodies: they have history.
Sometimes that history takes a toll. No, without exception that history takes a toll. There's nothing exceptional happening here. This is precisely what it looks like when a forty-four year old stops exercising and spends most of his time hunched over a book or keyboard on a desk. This is precisely what happens. History. It's what's for dinner.
Today the papers told the story of Maya Angelou. She died at the age of 86. She was a poet, an activist, a soothsayer. I have a couple of volumes of her work on my shelf. I will take one of them down today and read a little to honor her. I will also look for videos online to listen to and watch.
This is the thing about bodies: they have history.
Her voice always catches me. Lush. Rich. Fecund with what accretions have found their way into her psyche, into her body. The memories, the embodied witness to the passage of time and the actions of those around her are all sounded in that voice; both the horrors and the grace of what she witnessed are sounded in that voice.
This is the beauty about bodies: they have history.
Today I shall listen to Maya's voice. I will seek it's echo, the digitized remnants of that body and the history it holds. I will remember through her.