I knew an actor once, not a particularly good actor, who carried all the tension in his entire body in the points of his elbows and in the space directly above his hips.
When he attempted to express emotion on the stage–which was often–he locked his joints without meaning to and became like an unhinged puppet, hardening almost to the point that he looked like a wooden doll.
He was, as I said, not a very good actor.
He was tall, though, and he had an even skin tone that cooperated with the texture of his hair to make him look decent under stage lights. The combination of his height with his looks meant that he got consistent parts.
He mangled the parts after he had them, but he got them.
The reason I’m talking about this guy is because of the energy structure indicated by his perpetually stiff elbows and hips.
I’ve never seen anyone attempt to purge emotion off through the points of their elbows before, aside from him. It’s about the most useless area in the human body for trying to press through fear or pain, and the way the joint moves, and the lack of muscular padding and plump, breathable area in that spot means that you can’t really express any deeply-held emotion there.
The odd part was that he didn’t put energy that was wholesome or bright into his elbows. For example, giddiness or interest can be pushed into the arms and flow over the elbow joints, and then you get a coherent picture, but he put all the bright, sparkling emotions into two strips just above his hips, along his lower back.
Everything in his energy carriage was in contradiction to practicality and functional use.
Well, my theory is that he was raised by sadists and he hid all his functional emotions in the wrong places so that he wouldn’t be as much of a target.
Diana stared up into the alien’s eyes and waited for him–she didn’t know if it was a him–to answer.
Stuart gripped her hand with his bitten one and glared at the aliens with a smile.
“You said she was your life match,” one of the three other aliens said, turning to look with lopsided eyes at Stuart, who grinned harder.
“He lied,” Diana said quickly. “He’s in love with me. He wants me to be in love with him, and I’m not. I hate him,” she added with a brilliant and genuine smile of her own.
The four aliens looked at her, and then at Stuart, who looked appalled and terrified, and then a strange, chuffing kind of laughter burst out of the alien in front.
Diana wrestled her hand away from Stuart and the aliens vanished. She blinked. They had disintegrated somehow, leaving nothing behind to show they’d just stood there. The grass was unbent, the alien ship had made no reappearance, and Stuart gaped at the now-empty courtyard of trees.
A thick backpack made of some strange, metallic substance appeared before their feet. There was a paper note tied to the handle with yellow string. Diana glanced at Stuart, who looked as if he’d gone into some kind of shock, and then she bent down and picked up the folded note.
You’re reading Victor Poole, and in my current novel, trouble is slowly brewing between Dylan and Steve, who have some interrelational dynamics to resolve. (They’re on the same security team, and work for Pops.)