Just DanceHere's to a moment of nostalgia. I'm skimming through pages of ballet terminology and admiring the pictures associated with the movements. I find myself drawn to the faces of each ballerina. Some seem to be in no pain, as though the movement they are captured creating is second nature. Others don't hide the pain quite so well, and my heart reaches out to them. I long to tell them that it's okay not to be prefect, and that all that matters is the beauty of the art they create and the story they portray. But they know better. I know better.My brain is suddenly racked with invading memories I've kept stashed away and hidden for so long. As painful as they are, I succumb to the invasion. I've returned to that day in the hospital. I still vividly remember my conversation with a ballerina from the San Francisco Ballet. She spoke of her once-successful ballet career, and as I listened with much intensity I could not grasp why she didn't miss it. She didn't miss dance. She stated without hesi
Carbon CopyYou can't force the words that won't come.The same wordsRepeat themselvesAcross mocking blue linesStaring through youScreaming defiant insultsInto your deafened earsViolently they pull a mask across your faceBlinding you fromBlackness within, and colors withoutThen rip it all away at onceRevealingMangled flesh, andRotting promisesWhat strange ironiesHide among yourPrecious lies and insecuritiesYou weave them intricatelyInto something tauntingly beautifulImpossible to resistEndlessly sorting through a weaving web of woesYou come up shortOf even the most sordid excusePursuit ofPeaceful reconnaissance With past woundsSeems futile and naiveToo many loose endsEver fraying and disappearingYet from some dark cornerThey reach out to the interims of your consciousPlaying games with itTaunting and beggingCome out and playReopen old woundsOver and over againNever let them solidifyInto something tangible or palpableThat might stand the test o
Sex, Religion and FaithSex is dirty, vulgar and horrid,And you should save itFor the one you love.Your God, the lord, will love you always,Do all that he says,Or you will burn in hell.Sex, Religion and Faith,Should know their place,Backstage for the desperate.For you.But.Who are you?
The Cellist's WifeAubrey is holding her again. As he has held her every day for many weeks. She is his one true love. I watch him from the doorway of his studio, embracing her. I envy the way he lays her body against him, the way his legs fit around her so perfectly, the way they seem made for one another. He told me, when we married, that he would never love another more than me, but I can see it. He adores her. And how can I deny him the beauty and purity of his love? The world is so lacking in a love like theirs. When he slides his bow over her strings, the singing of the vibration, there is nothing like it.Aubrey's cello is the woman he longs for, the one he desires. Late at night, I know her music fills his dreams. When he and I make love, he is filled with her humming.Aubrey is playing in legato, the notes flow like water over one another. He is unwilling to part from her. I lean against the doorway to watch. From the corner of his eye, he sees me and looks up sharply. He is still sliding the bo
Tell Me Where It HurtsYou could be any age and it would hit you that love can make the speed of your blood change as it ran through your body. And love could open the doors that were once slammed in your face. And when she fell in love, she stopped dreaming in black and white and began to dream in rainbows and prisms.That was the beginning the end became a blur.When they argued, mostly because of minor misunderstandings, he would sit without expression listening to her plea her case. And then, because he often couldn't find the words he would borrow someone else's and calmly discount all that she had previously said.'I wanna stand with you on a mountain.' And like always she would sigh and her heart would skip a beat or two in realisation that once again, he had beaten her down.'I wanna bathe with you in the sea.' And hearing him talk about things that he would never voluntarily do brought out the frustration behind her eyes and she would leave. It would only