A small story:

For a couple of years, Kid swam/water polo’ed/dove. She was never completely dry and the back seat of my car was a shade lighter than the front seat thanks to chlorine.
While all three pool sports shared a venue, the participants were easily categorized. The swim-team kids were the ones shaped like inverted triangles, the water-polo players were covered in bruises and the divers had destroyed hair.

“Didn’t they all?”

Nope.
Swim team wore caps, water-polo wore caps- at least in part so an opponent didn’t tear off their ears- but divers, did not. The pattern of diving/waiting to dive created greater porosity in the hair, leading to greater damage.
You know it’s bad when the divers of Asian ancestry had taupe and broken hair. Bleach does not play.

See; car upholstery.
Anyway, the other thing which identified each cohort was what they unconsciously did on dry land. Swimmers roll their shoulders, all the time; I imagine they walk down the aisle to their beloved, rolling their shoulders.
At their open-casket funeral, they are unrecognizable to family and friends because their shoulders are not orbiting their sockets. A sobbing relative tries to crawl in shrieking, “JUST ONE MORE FOR JESUS!”
Water-polo players are lifting weights, sewing gaping game wounds closed with some hemp they found in the parking lot and trying to get into their game suits, which are two sizes smaller than they are. I’m told this to keep from being grabbed but also hey, tourniquet.
Then, there is the diver’s move. The point of a dive is to move up, off, around, as quickly as possible. You can only be on the board for a second, so divers are constantly unconsciously practicing up/off/around.

Imagine you are at a fancy restaurant.
The waiter oozes over, asks if you want fresh pepper on your pasta.

You do.

They grind; one part remains motionless, the other turns nearly 180 degrees.

That’s what divers do.

Here’s another visual.

Imagine a jar which refuses to open.
Imagine that last, violent, “Oh, you are opening or I’m dying trying” twist before you hand it to someone else.

That’s what divers do.

If they twist their torso to the right, the left arm suddenly swings up as if to block this:
The right arm flings behind the twisting torso, serving as counterweight. This all takes, at most, two seconds. The diver then comes back to what passes for normal, their fried hair bobbing back down.
Did I mention they also are briefly airborne during this?
I never failed to be amused by this, by the blasé way Kid would briefly spasm into extra dimensions, the alarm on the faces of humans who didn’t smell of chlorine, the eye-contact the divers would maintain, EXORCIST-like, while basically facing backwards.
I shed no tears when she quit diving; it takes seeing only one diving accident to be reminded what’s at stake. I’m glad she did it, I’m glad she enjoyed it, I’m pleasantly surprised her hair recovered.
In darker moments, I can bring up the memory of my bleach-scented standing in Trader Joe’s, both alarming hipsters and reminding them they needed freshly-ground pepper.

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More from @quinncy

20 Oct
For those who asked, here is the book (feat: Non-janky highlighter)
Here is the first page. I will give you no more but lie to me and tell me you don’t want @ElieNYC’s book.

Pre-order it.
You have no idea how mad I am at you, @ElieNYC.

Three chapters in and I CANNOT GIVE THIS TO EVERY PERSON I KNOW FOR CHRISTMAS THE FUCK.
Read 20 tweets
20 Oct
A small story:

I loved ballet.

I loved the precision, the quiet, the discipline, the chasing after a Platonic ideal of a line, a movement, the feeling of flight, of speed. I loved the wardrobe and oh, did I love pointe shoes.

Ballet tolerated me.
At its heart dance is a sport * and, like all sports, there are certain people more physically-suited to the sport than other. I wasn't designed for ballet.

* At its heart, ballet began as a way for French aristocrats to look at lady-legs and pick out their new mistress.
Even though I was small, I was the wrong kind of small; the perfect ballet dancer should have a smaller head, very long limbs and very bendy feet.

If spiders could pirouette, Balanchine would have married three of them.
Read 26 tweets
19 Oct
A small story:

If pressed, I think the most baffling thing to explain to anyone younger than 25 is how rarely anyone over 45 took a picture.

Well, that and rotary phones.

I imagine myself pulling down a photo album and then stopping to explain a photo album.
Having broken down the idea of "We printed them and then put them in a book and never looked at them unlike now, where they are in your phone and you never look at them," I'd show them an average page.

Birthday or two.

Holidays.

Vacation.

"That's a year," I would say.
They'd possibly push the pictures a few times, thinking that maybe it would open a file of the rest of the 16,000 images of pets, meals and bomb-light pouting which is now how we measure a year.

"Nope," I'd say cheerfully, "The picture were printed, picked up, put in here."
Read 18 tweets
14 Oct
A small story:

"I'm sorry," someone who knows me in three dimensions says apologetically, "I'm not on Twitter."

It's fair for them to assume this will wound me deeply. As I have noted before, "I was on Twitter" will always be my alibi, no matter the day or time.
Anyone who spends as much time as I do on here must like it.

Right?

"Good for you!" I say supportively to the non-Twitter person, then add, "And never start. It's a septic tank."

I believe this.

Turns out, I'm that bacteria which has evolved to thrive in septic tanks.
Until this morning, my answer was always, "There is no good reason an emotionally healthy and fully-actualized person should be on Twitter. The Nazis alone are reason enough. Also, no edit button."

This morning, I received a text from a friend's son, newly in this tank.
Read 10 tweets
13 Oct
A small story:

As anyone who has followed me for a while knows, my volunteering energy goes a bunch of places but I put the bulk of it towards @SanteDOr, a tiny, nearly all-volunteer rescue, based in a single storefront in Atwater Village.

Don't let the size fool you.
In the last twenty years, they have saved and placed thousands of cats, some dogs, a few very confused rabbits and one very alarmed hamster. During the pandemic, they redoubled their TNR efforts because a lot of groups were overwhelmed.

They are good people.

Stuff gets done.
More to the point, animals get second chances. Frequently during a Trap/Neuter/Release program in a feral cat colony a volunteer will realize a "Feral" cat is frantically purring and curling around their hands, desperate for safety and care again.
Read 25 tweets
12 Oct
A small story:

"I LIKE this dress!" Consort says appreciatively. I nod in agreement; it's very flattering, clever enough to keep me from yelling about who would pay over $700 for this dress. I mean, I wouldn't but I respect that someone with near-infinite resources would.
I swish around so the dress can have a moment and Consort says happily, "I'm glad you're enjoying this experiment."

I stop mid-swish.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," I say, then add, "I mean, it's fine. It's a good writing prompt."

Even the best couples have unbridgeable chasms.
I think of Consort's temperament as the byproduct of his Mediterranean ancestors, a man capable of great pleasure merely by being surrounded by the things in this world which matter to him. A great red wine being drunk with lifelong friends on a lakeside porch?

Joy.
Read 16 tweets

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