Mart-deBlog

But then I imagine how she must walk on those endless stairs spiraling upwards. And I can see her walking, up and up, step after step. She walks rhythmically, neither hasty nor slow. On every step her bodyweight rests on the ball of her foot, flexing her hips from left to right and her upper body mirroring the movements from right to left, ending in the smooth waving of her head. Her steps never break the continuity of her walk, one foot lifting in reverse of the other foot sinking on the marble surface, one side of her body rewinding the motion of the other. She never stops walking, she never doubts her steps and her waist never moves away from the center of her body. She can only walk upwards. And at times she raises her head, without losing her balance, without breaking the continuity of her steps. She looks up to the coming steps and then she rests her neck again, her eyes brightening with her face down to the marble. Nothing will change.
Up and up, step after step she walks. And she never uses the banisters but walks straight in the middle. Her arms do not seek support and sometimes she even crosses them, one hand resting on the opposite shoulder.
There are short moments when she quietly hums random melodies. But she stops when the meandering tones turn into patterned tunes by the echoes of the spiraling hall.
Tread on tread she walks on the stairs, candles flickering when she passes. Her lower back hollows with the hollowing of the sole under her foot, and pushing her loin forward she rides on the rhythm of her legs. The outer sides of her thin calves dimple under the pulsating strain of flexing ankles. On the stairs in front of her she displays her shadows flickering in distorted forms on the white stone, experimenting with slight changes of her moving body blowing up into phantasmal creatures. Their forms break her boredom. And sometimes she leaves her long hair veiling her sight, blurring the stairs into haze. Twiggy shadows become bulky shadows become crooked shadows. They never look like her.
She walks up and up, tread on tread. Rhythmically she moves along, neither hasty nor slow, her body in perpetual motion. All the treads are equal and she moves continuously in the middle of the spiraling stairs. There is no runner. And when she looks up, she sees more of the same, an endless recital of stairs without any difference from the cold stone underneath her bare feet. She sees no promise of changes except for herself, her shadows. The repetition is her canvas. And thus she must walk in the continuous act of creation. She stretches her arms wide, and a creature appears. It is almost a bird.