I walk from one foreign language to another, from one fugue state to another, as I move from my Italian class to my Rolfing session, just a few blocks apart. What is that blasted word for “fifteen,” which was right there where it belonged as I recited 100 numbers on my way to the train. In the class: gone.
Rolfing fugue: things float back to me haphazardly as I lie there. The goal of the first session is the breath, she says. The breath? I forgot all about the breath. I did the scary thing with eyes and mouth wide open, but you were also supposed to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. Totally forgot.
Foreign language: We round to the form, she says. This has something to do with connective tissue reshaping itself to hold the newly Rolfed structure in place (I think), but conjugating essere suddenly seems a lot easier.
As she explores my lateral alignment, the goal of the third session (the second had to do with feet, apparently – that didn’t penetrate my fugue last time), I learn that my twelfth rib (one of those two weird ribs that float) is right on top of my ilium on the side that hurts. Very confusing to hear as I float in and out – I never realized part of the intestines and the big hipbone were homonyms, and so I’m trying to picture my rib floating down among all those twisted tubes. Italian and anatomy – neither one comes easy.