[27] Tournelle du Soleil • MONTRÉAL • May 16 (Patreon)

The trampwall team is rehearsing about 10 metres away from where my Tower is parked in the space. Three acrobats throw themselves off the wall above the trampoline bed in sequence, their bodies falling down and bouncing back up in rotation like human juggling balls. 

The plexiglas walls of the Tower muffle some sounds, amplify others. The springs of the trampoline bed scream and clack with each catch and launch. The acrobats shout to each other to keep their timing and it rings out, diffuses through the massive studio. The music for their act-in-progress blasts out into the mix. Their acrobatic designers voice blends into the mix.

Something rises inside my torso, creeping up to my lowest ribs, my stomach, my diaphragm. If it goes much higher I'm going to freeze.

I swallow, brace my palms on the plexiglas panels. Many of the tricks and positions that look impressive inside the vacuum tower are completely "meh" inside this Tower. My body is not hidden or obscured. I must find new ones.

My head drifts back and the rest of me follows, drifting down backwards to the base of the Tower. Skin and muscles pull tight across the front of my body. Shallow breathing against the pressure.

This Tower feels so different than my vacuum tower. The dimensions are familiar but the walls are rigid. Unforgiving.  If I relax into the apparatus it's easy to become wedged into a position that is hard to get back out of. Jerky or sudden movements deepen a problematic range of motion instead of backing me out of it. Panicking is not an option. Overreaching and getting too fatigued to get myself out of that position is not an option. The pathway into a position is often the only pathway out.

THUDS reverberate through the Tower: the impact of bodies on the mesh bed of the trampoline next to me, the feet of the acrobats kicking against the wall to launch themselves out into space again for the next trick. 

Slowly, slowly, I peel myself upright again in the tower. My legs shake. It's hard to catch my breath. It feels like a siren is wailing loudly in the background in my head. Calm down. It's okay. You're alright.

There's so many people in the space today.

Don't worry about them. You have to keep researching. You have to rehearse.

My brain is blank. Flatlining. My anxiety is peaking.

You have to show the director something tomorrow. You don't have time for this.

The springs on the trampoline bed shriek.

I try to take a deep breath. I only get a sip of air. I try again. A sip. My eyes dart around. There's a huge team of banquine artists in one of the other studio quadrants now. Winch operators. Riggers in hard hats. A third quadrant has an artist on flying pole warming up, another small army of creatives flanking the edges of that space.

I'm just standing here in my phone booth. Do something. Do something. Do something. Clark Kent without his costume underneath.

I carefully lever myself into a handstand. Legs crushed close to torso, nose by shin, I can barely squeeze my other leg behind, up, and over my head. Feet searching above me for a pathway that will allow me to maneuver my legs over my head into a contortion position. 

I wedge one shin down lower on the front plane of the Tower. Press back against the panel with the top of a foot, trying to send the bend into the front of my hip. I feel my low back take it instead. I'm not sure about it and start to slowly reverse-engineer my movement, creeping slowly towards the pathway out.   

The artists at the top of the tramp wall shout down over the music to the artistic director. Power tools rev out of sight somewhere behind me. A forklift beeps, persistent, high, piercing. 

I straighten up again. Take a breath. It's not enough.

Take a breath. Not enough.

Take a breath. Take a–

Not–

I can't catch my breath. There's plenty of air inside the Tower but there isn't enough inside my lungs.

I keep my head bowed, chest lurching, ribs aching. Hoping that none of the other artists, directors, or coordinators in the space have turned around to peer inside this vertical fishbowl.

I steeple my fingers in front of my face. Force myself to breathe through my nose. Fight the muscle spasms. Slowly, slowly, my breathing evens out. My shoulders drop. My fingertips are tingling.

I step carefully out of the tower to get a sip of water. Sit and write my sequences in my notebook. And then climb back inside. Back on the horse.

I push through the last forty minutes of my research session. I feel crappy and wrung out by the end, but I've got a solid four minutes of choreography to show for it. I need to get home and rest. Tomorrow I have to show the director for the first time.

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Your next instalment of Tournelle du Soleil arrives Friday at 7am EST / 1pm CEST!

Until then, stay strange and wonderful - XO, ess