12/30/07

That’s a quote from a book about autistic people that Ms Spur read a while ago.

The present moment:  I’m at Miss Good’s house, still half-dolled-up after having gone to see The Nutcracker (dancers from Moscow even!), waiting for a latte, enjoying the candlelit ambience, frustrated as all heck, listening to the Chariots of Fire theme on Miss Good’s laptop which is keeping my lap very warm indeed, reflecting on the sheer beauty of movement.  (Okay, now I’m listening to Louis Armstrong doing "Don’t Get Around Much Anymore."  I approve.)  Contemplating: Hopping in my borrowed car and showing up on U’s doorstep.  Feeling half crazy and so not following through on this contemplation …

I’ll have to continue the story of the previous entry some other time.  Perhaps when I have a suitable ending to round it off well.  I’m feeling rebellious about recording things that … don’t lead to things.

Three people swimming in my head.

The Friar is probably coming to a party I’m having later this week.  I’m very curious about how I will feel, seeing him among my friends.  Or at all, for that matter.

I’ve been thinking that it sucks not to do what I’m good at.

And at the height of that train of thought, which tends to be aching and passionate, comes (usually) the reminder: One has to give up even the good stuff sometimes to go higher.

In a voice lesson with E years ago, something about the warming-up exercises opened me, and I knew that in a moment I was going to cry – completely and unabashedly, become simply a sobbing machine.  My voice faltered for a moment and E cried out "Good, good," and I could feel his will catching mine and projecting it somewhere else entirely.  A new voice came out of me and all thoughts of crying were forgotten utterly in the act of creation.  I haven’t had a musical/spiritual midwife like that in a long, long time – *I* should be that person for myself and for my students now – how cowardly and lazy I have been!  But that’s what I think of when I think of how all my Erotic (in the full sense of the word) possibilities are gathering dust.  If I went to U’s place right now and succumbed to whatever would happen (probably nothing, probably he’d blink rapidly out of nervousness, small talk would be made about the art on his walls, I’d leave after another one of those sad hugs), it might be a waste of something that could be transformed into something even better.

How do I reconcile the strongest connections of my life with the pull of Orthodoxy?

—-

Woah, Miss Good is having a DTR talk right now on the phone!  Hmm … maybe I need to finish up here and get ready for coffee and post-talk yakking …

Oh, the sheer joy of a ballet dancer leaping.  The energy of hands lightly holding a waist.