Katie Eleanor

You approach The O from lower down the hill and note its architecture is shaped as a large white circle, a Viennese Sachertorte. The (cell) windows are modelled after sharp bottom teeth, and run up five stories in even round rows. The walls are thick with fondant, the plaster imbued with sugar. I heard a nurse once encourage a Hare to lick at the walls.  If you look closely you can see the lightning rod pointing skyward from the roof. ‘Grounding’ they tell me, ‘is very important here.’

Grounding, Physical Introspection, and Being Present in the Current Space and Current Time, a class given on a Tuesday afternoon at The O. You form lines in the attic underneath the lightning rod, ‘for inspiration,’ Mother would tell us. Grounding. Grounding like lightning, lighting lightening sparks. Rise, and fall. Rise, and fall. Toe, heel, ankle. Rise, and fall. Freeze. Freeze, whenever your body floats away. Stop, fall, deflate, push, push, and push down into the Ground(ing). ‘Or we will clip your wings, Bluebird,’ as they try to pull you back.

There is a lightning spark whenever my soles meet grass, or Earth or wood, even though I am still in the attic above the third floor of The O. Count my limbs, count my veins, count my hairs. Count the number of petals on the plant by the window. Count the colours of the paint on the cupboard in my Mother’s kitchen.

During the first months they realise I float too much, and they tie a rope around my waist to allow me to hover silently in the corner. C is being so loud today, like an unlyrical shrieking bird.

‘I invite you all to see yourselves bathed in a glow of yellow light’.

Icarus who learned to hover, to float. Icarus in therapy, Icarus learns not to burn, Icarus learns tenderness. Tender Icarus. Medicated Icarus. ‘Icarus! There is no need to howl.’