Some days air to hip. Some skeleton. Passage through the body and the week. A fizzy head and shoulders on Monday. Some days the white men in my life watch over me. They read these words over my shoulder. They tell me what is funny and what is not funny. They tell me what to avoid, what is too much. They align me with a certain way of being in the world: not the mainstream, but the alternative white scene I suppose you could call it. The world orbits around whiteness so hard. I understand early on that there is something to understand and that it is outside of me. Meanwhile, I spend the morning sending good energy and breath down into my hip, because I can soften it this way, healing myself.
