My former Wing Chun instructor had only done ballistic stretching in his legs for most of his training. As a result, he could easily kick at eye-level, holding his leg up at chest level to underscore the effort.
He, however, could not bend over and touch his toes. I don't think he was exactly embarrassed about it, but he certainly acknowledged the inconsistency of his flexibility.
And in the kitchen tonight, while making steamed buns again, I stood in my pyjamas, having been too lazy to change back into the jeans that run a size or two too small (furthermore, why would I at 10:30 in the evening? Where could I possibly be going at this hour) after letting a friend I had only met a day or two before take naked pictures of me. That is, reshooting, as our first meeting had been under similar circumstances, in a different locale.
In any case, and more to the point, I was waiting for the buns to steam, and saw the dangling cords for the ceiling fan and light, and felt not unlike a cat at that moment. And, channelling the memory of my former instructor, kicked my foot upwards and reaffirmed what I had also hoped was true, and managed to send the cord flying upwards into the fortunately turned-off fan blade.
And in that moment before my leg came back down, surely looking ridiculous to any neighbours peering through the alley into my kitchen, I felt as if my leg would remain pointing towards the moon, and the rest of my body would pulled around like a midnight high tide, and I would be drawn upwards forever, walking on the belly of the starry dome.
He, however, could not bend over and touch his toes. I don't think he was exactly embarrassed about it, but he certainly acknowledged the inconsistency of his flexibility.
And in the kitchen tonight, while making steamed buns again, I stood in my pyjamas, having been too lazy to change back into the jeans that run a size or two too small (furthermore, why would I at 10:30 in the evening? Where could I possibly be going at this hour) after letting a friend I had only met a day or two before take naked pictures of me. That is, reshooting, as our first meeting had been under similar circumstances, in a different locale.
In any case, and more to the point, I was waiting for the buns to steam, and saw the dangling cords for the ceiling fan and light, and felt not unlike a cat at that moment. And, channelling the memory of my former instructor, kicked my foot upwards and reaffirmed what I had also hoped was true, and managed to send the cord flying upwards into the fortunately turned-off fan blade.
And in that moment before my leg came back down, surely looking ridiculous to any neighbours peering through the alley into my kitchen, I felt as if my leg would remain pointing towards the moon, and the rest of my body would pulled around like a midnight high tide, and I would be drawn upwards forever, walking on the belly of the starry dome.
