POV: you're trying to carve out a new life in this cursed city but your soul is leaking from every orifice
Having entered the devil, the devil entered me.
When I first moved to Melbourne, I forced myself to try new things. These ranged from the iconic (go to an all-night club!) to the pretentious (order a “Magic” coffee!) to what can only be described as basic hygiene (wash your sheets!).
I suppose I wanted to get under the skin of the city, to wear its skyline as a coat. I wanted to believe, deep in my bones, that I hadn’t made a mistake by moving. Which is why I put myself to task one autumn evening: I cut my toenails, gathered my strength and plunged headfirst into the Devil’s womb.
Whoa.
No shit. I navigated the River Styx, snuck past Cerberus, descended to the 7th Circle of Hell and crawled between Satan’s chafed red thighs to make my home in the spiciest incubator known to humankind – a hot yoga studio.
I wasn’t the only one to have taken up residence in the offensively moist space. Bodies lay scattered in the darkness; big bodies, small bodies, bodies contorted into unnatural shapes. In the far corner, an elderly man’s soft moans provided a grounding vibration in the hellish landscape.
I’d tried yoga before, but never hot yoga. Walking home, I saw a cheap beginner’s deal and thought: fuck it. I was feeling my 26(ish) years, had little-to-no spiritual meaning in my life and, more importantly, I would’ve sold my soul to stretch another centimetre or two in height. What did I have to lose besides four kilos of water weight?
I was met at the womb’s entrance – Satan’s cervix, to be anatomically accurate – by a woman named Tina. She handed me a towel and reminded me that this would be a strenuous experience. Warned but not wary, I lay my towel on the pelvic floor and took a seat. Sweat sprang from a profusion of pores as Tina confirmed the temperature was 38 degrees. I let out a low whistle – a kettle on the boil – but was the only person in the room to be audibly impressed. Contrary to my first impression, the people around me appeared to be not only surviving, but thriving.
Tina encouraged us to close our eyes and listen to our natural rhythms.
“What is your body saying to you?” she said.
“Get out of here,” my soul whimpered back.
“Is there any chatter happening?”
“I’m drowning in my own juices.”
Hush, soul.
People will hear.
Confident we’d resolved our inner issues, Tina proceeded to take us through a range of asanas. I convulsed like a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth and begging for water. Tina sensed my distress and instructed me to move from rabid to downward dog. I was relieved to feel the blood move to my already flushed face as efficiently as possible.
“Now hold your pose and raise your eyes,” she said. “Look to the side and say hello to your neighbour. Go on, give them a wink.”
No worries, Tina.
I turned to my left and dead-eyed the woman next to me. More of a spasm than a neighbourly greeting, but no harm done as she refused to acknowledge the heaving monstrosity beside her. I looked to my right and was thrilled to see a man who appeared to be even worse off than me. I winked and gave him a knowing smile, as if I was enjoying myself.
We’ve all been there, mate.
This, too, shall pass.
I lowered my gaze and blinked back a salty concoction of sweat and tears. I prayed the man next to me might go into cardiac arrest so I could sneak out Satan’s back door and never return. But the bastard kept breathing; in and out of his nose, as instructed by Tina – blessed Tina! – who was quick to remind us of the calmness, the clarity, the celestial high we were tapping into simply by being there.
“Turning up is half the battle,” she enthused, before inviting us to marinate in the space for as long as we wished.
I declined, opting to mop up the mess surrounding my mat instead. And having seen to my swampy surrounds, I made a break for freedom only to find my sweat-slicked soles sliding across the studio’s wooden floor. I knew not what awaited me in the Melbourne evening – a turmeric latté, perhaps – but anything, save for a shot of hot sauce, would’ve been an improvement.
I knew Tina was right, though. Turning up was half the battle. It still is. And as I exited Satan’s womb in one pliable – albeit swollen – piece, I delighted in the fiery sky guiding me home, in the way the last light danced across the discarded syringes decorating St Kilda’s streets.
I knew I would not be returning to this godforsaken place, but I would remain open, I promised, to possibility. To this new life and the potential of the city. Because I’d learned what it means to be born again in the fires of hell. I understood what it took to shed one’s blistered skin and rise blissed-out from the ashes.