A very thin young Hassid arrived at the exercise area next to the running track, and shed his black coat and cap. In his vest, shirtsleeves, slacks and tendrils, he spent some time in a standing position, swinging his thin legs in nearly complete circles, dancers’ arcs, with much enthusiasm. People on nearby benches stared.
On my next revolution, he was bent over backwards walking his hands down the spindly trunk of a tiny yellow-flowered tree, attempting to get into a full backbend (I guess). He got about halfway.
On my next revolution, he was hanging by his knees from the overhead bars, with his tendrils hanging straight down, and also his thin thighs and arms, and also the four long strings of his special penile guard (which was also hanging upside down, abandoning its post). He appeared to be a collection of strands and ribbons, and his limbs were like ribbons he was pitching in all directions.
On my next revolution, he was sitting in half-lotus on the grass, holding a cigarette in a fancy way – with his hand extended palm up.
