by mickharris

both in previous magic and in current life which is often imaginative escape but still has something real to it:

i make characters.  or they come to me, or a combination of both.

for the past year i have been honing a woman.  a woman who hones herself, utterly, to the point of physical perfection.  who makes a body like iron, gristled and lean and capable of motion so fast, so perfect i can’t follow it with my lens.  so precise, so deadly, she should be a superhero.  sometimes she is given life past human span, for purposes of guardianship, of tradition, of preserving and remembering.

her body was once made of bones so brittle they would break at one touch so she learned to move like mercury and direct motion and violence away without doing harm, avoiding.  the bones could be disjointed, pulled out of sockets and pushed back again as long as they were never touched they would never break.  the artlessness of directing force back to the earth, back to its original vessel.

now she is vital, she is not sick or dying or afraid of being ground into meal.  but she is very hard, very stocked with emotions.  very sure of how those work and flow and process.  very able to turn them to rage and fuel for her limbs.  very functional.  very compact.  

very flexible.  she tempers her skin, plunges her hands into burning sand, slices and folds and stitches up pieces of herself to be harder.  toughen the skin and when you’re hit you don’t go down, you let the pain vibrate through you and out again and you continue moving.  i feel her spine and the set of her shoulders, the planes of collarbones and hips and rotation on the balls of her feet.  always ready for something.  

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