Just you and air and falling. Your limbs splayed out and the balance tipping over in different parts of your body so your legs and your arms and your head and your front and your back all take turns to lead. Like a dance. A dance that you already know. Like turning up at a wedding and dancing along to the YMCA even though nobody has ever taught you the moves.
A tumble sounds like a very middle class sort of pudding, with plums in it.
It’s a good word, comfortable, rounded. Especially with the addition of ‘drier’ on the end it really does it for me.
If you identify as an elegant sort of a person you probably wouldn’t want to tumble on your way down because it’s an incredibly inelegant thing to do. You don’t really look very cool when you’re tumbling; as an action it yells ‘LOOK AT ME PANICKING’, or perhaps just ‘FAILURE!’.
The clothes in a tumble-drier have no idea where they will end up. updownupdownupdownupdown through and through the air and grabbing, flailing, looking for something to cling on to and the panic the flailing only adds momentum to the tumble until they’re going so fast that from the ground we can’t see what is top and what is bottom and their heads can’t process any of it anymore it’s just a blur heading towards the inevitable end, the splash or the crash or the stop or the landing or whatever.
Thudunk thudunk thudunk trainers, bodies, socks, humans thudunk.
This tumbling is not the kind that gymnasts do on big blue mats. This tumble is limbo.
Some people can control their tumbles. Dancers, boxers. I hate those people. They’re the sort of people who might look cool when faced with death.
I’m out there with the socks man.
I don’t want to be one of them. I’m not a you’ve been framed clip or a youtube sensation.
When I fall I want to look really cool. I want to look like I don’t give a shit. I give so much shit about that. I want to tumble well. You won’t see me doing any of that rubbish tumbling, that’s for other people. The shit tumblers.