STUDY WITH ALFONS

Writing a blog post is a funny sort of thing. Throughout the day I scout for relevant, meaningful, communicable thoughts. Now I wonder: what is the style of my blog? Should it be personal stories? Professional information? Or about my creative process as a somatic movement teacher?

All the while I know that – first of all – this is a practice for myself rather than for anyone else – and secondly – every day, the moment I start to write, all my planing and scouting falls to pieces. Right from its start, the blog post develops a life on its own, and demands to be treated as such.

Strangely, the writing always brings forth things that I have not planed to write at all. Does it bring forth things that were hidden? Or things that were actively in hiding? Now drawn to light through the process of writing? How much is hidden inside of me then? And where else is it coming from? The Internet? My immediate environment? Or, does it bring forth things that are inside of you, who is reading this? Is there a magical connection between you and me, some sort of beautiful, quantum mechanic intermingling that casts life into these posts?

Or is writing more like embodied thinking? Conscious and active. A cognitive process that makes new connections and creates meaning? An internal conversation between different perspectives, a give-and-take between mind and „paper”, resulting in an etched out flight of diction, that now lies prey to being read by anyone who stumbles upon it?

It is a funny sort of thing. A strange thing. Delightful, too. More again tomorrow.

How short can a posting be, but still have meaning inspire?

I do re-read my writings. I read them out loud to hear if they it flows well. Usually there’s a lot of words that don’t do not survive.

I’m flipping through stacks of books lately. All epub and pdf. Some I keep, some I drop.

I stopped holding back my bright, yellow marker. Books aren’t shared anymore. Everyone downloads fresh ones. Now I highlight a lot. I can feel very clearly which thoughts attract me, and which don’t. I’m quick to judge: „Oh that’s well written”, „Oh that’s boring.”

Never before have I tossed a book into a trashcan. Now it’s a simple press of command+delete and it’s gone. „Good bye book, I won’t miss you.”

But if needed, I could download it again.

I seem to know what I like, and what I don’t. How can I be so certain? I’ve hardly ever felt so certain before. I’m surprised by myself.

„Reading instruction from Greek and Roman times has focused on letters and sounds, despite continual efforts by critics to emphasise the vital role of meaning in reading and to demonstrate that letters play only a small, redundant, and often confusing part. Letters have become a fetish.” – Frank Smith, from the book Understanding Reading

A lot of research has happened in the past 50 years or so. And a lot of brilliant educators worked and thought hard about the necessary conditions for human learning and development.

„Movement” still lacks behind, as predicted by Moshé Feldenkrais. The closer something is to ourselves, the more difficult it is to grasp and handle. Movement seems to be even more elusive than speech and reading.

Luckily, in my search for meaning, understanding, and inspiration in the field of movement, the sciences concerned with teaching and literacy are close enough. I find these fields highly fascinating, and a lot can be learned and transposed into the field of movement.

Physical movements are not only about flexion and extension, hip flexibility and core strength. If they were, they would have become just a fetish.

Movement learning and comprehension, like the English weather, require an appreciation for subtle changes and understated nuances, rather than a vulgar obsession with assessments, strength, and range of motion.

With 17 I had a skiing accident. My first session at the local Physical Therapy studio took barely 20 minutes. The therapist was cute. That’s the best I can say about the whole thing. She was neatly dressed in white, had great skin, a scent of vanilla. The session itself felt like I’m being processed in a factory. Afterwards the receptionist gave me a sheet of paper with exercises on it. Black and white Xerox. Hardly recognisable photos. Six of them. Only one of the exercises was something the therapist did with me. Barely any text. Gladly. Because the text was not helpful at all.

My thoughts back then: „So here we have exercises so dumb that it only requires a few badly xeroxed photos to explain them.”

A conversation-based therapy session is different. In a conversation one human guides another human through a series of movements, concepts, ideas. She asks questions. Responds, thinks, suggests, replies. At times broad, at times specific. At times vague, at times direct. A good conversation respects both viewpoints, the therapists’ and the clients’. A therapy session can be a conversation. A text can lead to a conversation.

„In the performance arts, rhythm is the timing of events on a human scale; of musical sounds and silences that occur over time, of the steps of a dance, or the meter of spoken language and poetry. ” – from Wikipedia

Youtube is run by Google. Google knows who is watching my videos. And Google tells me this: 0 % of my viewers are 17 years of age or younger. Google tells me that my viewers are distributed evenly over five age groups: 18-34, 35-44, 45-54, 55-64, 65+, and they are mainly from these countries: US, UK, Germany, Canada, India, Australia, Netherlands.

Some of my viewers work in big companies, some even run big companies. Some of my viewers are senior citizens. Some are dancers and artists. Some are pain-free and into fitness and sports, and some are burdened by chronic pain.

Some have an urge to move, to push things forward. For them a forty minutes long lesson seems too long. Others love to dive deep into long lessons, and wouldn’t mind dedicating even an hour and a half.

Some lie down on the floor and immediately spontaneous, playful patterns and movements start to emerge, from deep within. Others can’t quite get into the art, and fall asleep as soon as they’re down on the ground.

That’s why I serve a buffet, with all dishes and condiments produced to the best of my knowledge. I encourage to remember the movements and play with them ad libitum.

„In music ad libitum means to play the passage in free time rather than in strict or metronomic tempo, to improvise a melodic line fitting the general structure, to omit an instrument part (such as a nonessential accompaniment), to play a passage an arbitrary number of times. In nutritional studies, it denotes providing free access to feed or water, thereby allowing the animal to self-regulate intake according to its biological needs. In drama and performance arts it is used to describe individual moments during live theatre when an actor speaks through their character using words not found in the play’s text. In film, the term usually refers to the interpolation of unscripted material in an otherwise scripted performance.” – from Wikipedia