On rhythm, rage, the ground, and the things the devil knows.

About rhythm, the heart, about the things the devil knows about the heart: the alteration of its rhythm and its
form, its pauses, its prolonged pauses. The rage I feel knowing that the devil understands pauses better
than I do, while I remain still, trying to understand something about pauses, every single day.

Things the devil once told me: rhythm is a matter of pressure, the pressure of trajectory.
Resentment, repetition, the timing of rage—the rage of knowing that the devil knows more than I do, even
though he has no body.

About the ground, the distance from it to my heart—a piece of body, more than half of it. This distance
shortens when I fall. The things the devil knows about the heart: how to make me fall. The devil makes me
fall so that my heart gets closer to the ground. My only connection to the devil is gravity. Of all the things I
repeat the most, falling is one of them.

About the alterations the devil makes to rhythm and form:
About the alterations of form—the structure of life, repetition, variation, and contrast.
About the structure of life—practices and relationships—the ones the devil does not shape, except for
gravity, my only bond with him.

Everything the devil has ever told me, he has said during a fall—when he brings my heart closer to the
ground, trying to close the distance, pulling me into his pause, the one he knows so well, since he has no
body.

Practices. That which is done with the body.
That which the devil lacks.
That which I have in excess, so that I don’t have to resent him.
My practices: rage and rhythm.

About my relationships—besides gravity, which is intimately tied to the devil—my relationship with
construction: of truths, of desires, of bodies. Stacking, accumulating, gathering what will later serve a
purpose, something that could later be used in the idea of continuing to piece together something that might
eventually become what gives meaning to what was once meant to function in this way.

About my relationship with my body: many falls.
About my relationship with art: many distances.
About my relationship with men: too much heart with no ground.
About my relationship with writing: fears.
About my relationship with dance: gravity, trajectory, rhythm, and rage.
About my dance and my practices: rage and rhythm.

About my practices, my delusions.
The delusion of being an architect, a designer, a master builder, a craftswoman.
Of wanting to create something with the body.
Of wanting to be something through the body.
Of wanting to give the devil what he lacks, so that he might give me what I am missing.

But pacts with him do not exist. He speaks to me bodiless with every fall, mocking me for his ability to have
practices without a body, for his skill in controlling rhythm, and for his beautiful alliance with rage.