Its time to talk about the daring young man on the flying trapeze

In the vague lore that is the daring young man’s story his father was a gymnast in Toulouse, and the boy followed in his acrobatic footsteps. Or in another telling his father ran a swimming pool and the boy began to dive and leap into the pool before realizing he could swing above it. Possibly his father ran a Gymnasium.  It is difficult to know if the father’s gymnasia had a library like those of earlier times that could be perused before exercise or while relaxing in the baths. Nor is it known if, as per, the etymology of the Greek word, gymnos meaning “a place to be naked” impacted the way the young boy trained.

By his teenage years it is certain he donned costumes.

2006ah6273-jules-leotard-trapeze-artist_custom_290x290_10242264384He was born maybe in 1838, or potentially 1842. At the height of his mastery he could swing between three or possibly five trapeze. He was popular with the women in the pleasure gardens. He died of cholera, typhoid or maybe small pox. He was 28 or possibly 32.  Young enough to be mourned even in such medically perilous times.

Little is known. He invented the flying trapeze.

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He is Jules Leotard. Little girls wear his wardrobe to ballet class.

The word ‘leotard’ enters the vernacular in 1886 or 1889, at least 16 years after his death. Dictionaries credit Jules and the tight-fitting outfits he wore for its entry into usage.

In 1847 Poet Charles Baudelaire published the novella, La Fanfarlo.  In it his alter ego, poet-dandy, Samual Cramer, describes Walter Scott, “Oh, that tedious author! A dusty exhumer of chronicles! A fastidious mass of descriptions of bric-a-brac,….and melodramatic castles where lifeless mannequins stalk about, dressed in leotards and gaudy doublets.” Thus both withering Scott, and referencing ‘leotards’ when even according to the diverging sources, Jules would have been no more than either 5 or 9 years old.

Perhaps this is an act of the translator as producer.

jules-leotard2

With or without his leotard he convinces those willing to look upwards of the possibility of flight.

Where as others leapt and likely fell before him, he graced the air. Suspended before the fall. If only for a millisecond he opened a portal to a weightless dimension. Employing the velocity of the body thrust outward in a performance of gravitational defiance.

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a galleon in full sail

We search for dreams under the same moon. You and I. Standing in the cold in the heat in the desert in the mountain in the urban midstream. In my night your day, your day my night. A part of this shared revolution. For those passing and who have passed, for those entering tumultuous waters, and those who have found refuge in calm seas. We search for the moon in our same dreams.

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Following Yves

“In the ambition was a desire to make over the world as it should be; but in the disappearances was the desire to live as though it had been made over, to refashion oneself into a hero who disappeared not only into the sky, the sea, the wilderness, but into a conception of self, into legend, into the heights of possibility.”- Rebecca Solnit, From: Yves Klein and the Blue of Distance, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

ode to yves

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ode to yves2

In the car heading towards the Blue Ridge Mountains, the writer next to me says, “I am sure I know what it is to fly. I am sure I have flown.” The conversation turns to what the ‘feeling’ of flight is. Gliding? Rising? Hovering? in a waking state or within the dream. And if the act was in a dream, has it in fact happened? Or as Estha asks in Arundhati Roy’s, The God of Small Things “If you are happy in a dream, Ammu, does that count?”

We, like Ammu, know “that only what counts, counts.”

Memory is as illusive in its truths. Shifting at times from the hippocampus to the neocortex. Unstable and associative, we can never know its presence fully. Do we privilege our waking state because our memories seem easier to recall than our dreams which though we may grab their tales are always slippery.

In the dream I stand out on a desolate pier. It is morning. Early. I am home, or not home, have never been here, yet know this place fully. I reach my arms upwards towards the sky but am falling. Awakening as I hit the water.

I do not have Yves Klein’s courage or fortitude. I step more like a clown, though expecting to be a feather. Seeking lift-off, knowing one must leap.

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In neurons we are linked: our hippocampus, our dreams.

As the rat sleeps in dreams she relives the activities from the day. Through the maze she repeats her path perfectly never missing a turn. As the woman sleeps in dreams she relives the activities from the day. Through the maze she repeats her path perfectly never missing a turn.

rat and I_mastermerged
We delve in to our bodies to find our minds.

Matthew Wilson, Professor of Science at the Picower Institute for Learning and Memory at MIT asks how episodic memory connects to spacial memory. How is time and sequence incorporated in to memory. And how do these spacial and experiential acts become part of our unconscious or dream space. To do this he reads the memories of Rats in their dreams.

Wilson on the rat in the maze