Katie - Lujan, Argentina
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Mary Jane’s Last Dance - Tom Petty.
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Despite being an introductory level class, I am one of two students (out of 30) in my ballet class with zero dance experience and of only a handful with no ballet experience. Half of them used to be competitive dancers, and several attended prepro ballet schools.
Suffice to say, I’m a little (read: massively) out of my league and things are more intimidating than I had expected. As in, I was nervous to switch from socks to ballet shoes and still haven’t worked up the nerve to order a leotard and tights. I muddle up pretty much every single exercise, can’t keep track of my feet and arms at the same time, and after the first hour or so my legs enter full quiver mode.
In summary, I’m having a lot of fun.
I’m starting to love my midnight ballet and yoga sessions. There’s something so peaceful about their deliberate and repeated movements once the rush of the day is over and all that is left to worry about is sleep.
They’re also a godsend after a long day of skiing and a fall that tweaked my hipflexor.
Did I mention that I’m taking ballet at my university next semester? It may be a pass/fail class but I’m really nervous. This will be a much needed dive out of my comfort zone and could possibly be disastrous as I’m not flexible or coordinated and my external tibial torsion means I can’t really move my knees over my toes.
I don’t know if this is true to you but for me
sometimes it gets so bad
that anything else
say like
looking at a bird on an overhead
power line
seems as great as a Beethoven symphony.
then you forget it and you’re back
again.
Charles Bukowski, Bone Palace Ballet (via laciestanton)
I loved to sleep with the window open. Rainy nights were the best of all: I would open the window and put my head on the pillow and close my eyes and feel the wind on my face and listen to the trees sway and creak.
Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane (via wordsnquotes)
I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.
Charles Bukowski
(via awelltraveledwoman)
(via awelltraveledwoman)
I don’t want to write anything for you anymore. That hit me today. I don’t want to say anything more about you, at least not for a long while, at least not until the leaving is left and I can look at it from a different window. From a vacation or a new home or six years from now.
Sometimes it feels like all I have been doing for the last four years is learning how to let you go. At what point did you want me?
I am tired. I am tired of being sad about this. I want my life back. I want years back. I want a baby in my belly and a man who holds my hand. I want a partner. I want my efforts to go somewhere other than your ears. I want to stop being mad at you for not being there.
I went to bed last night and I looked around my bedroom and thought, “I don’t know how I got here”, but today I do. I chose you. I chose you every time there was another option or escape of person. I chose you. And some part of me thought that was a good thing, a right thing, a building a life thing. What I didn’t see was that I was earning experience, that I was walking empty handed, that I was fifty feet ahead of you, always.
I’m writing this to say it.
I remember writing this and not being able to finish it. I remember how sad I felt. I felt it again for a few moments this morning – what it was like to feel like I was never quite yours.
Your hers now and you seem happy. You like the same things, do the same things, are from the same country. It looks easy. She looks nice.
I was not easy. I was not necessarily nice. I was strong-willed and dangerously introspective with a flare for depression and self-loathing. I still am. I like books more than exercise or other people. I was the person on your couch when you came home and the person who you might say stopped you from doing what you wanted to do. I can hear conversations you must have now – how it never quite fit with me, how you almost gave up cycling for me, how I sat on the couch and mostly wrote or took walks. How right it feels with her, how easy and worth it after me.
At a Christmas party we went to years back your married friend talked about meeting his wife and said, “When you know, you know. Right?” and looked at you for validation. Looked at us together. You could not even nod your head. I sat on a wooden stool and wondered if it might somehow mercifully tip over so I could look as embarrassed as I felt and have the room understand.
I was never yours. Even when I held you, and for every night we fell asleep next to each other and shared a home. This disconnect is evidence of your joy now. You can measure your happiness by how not quite right it felt with me. I am proof of what the wrong person means once you find the right one. I am a story and a building block and a distant memory. I am not yours. I was not yours. And I know how much the lack of me validates your gains now.
I wrote you an email this Christmas to tell you I was glad you are happy and some future me meant it. When I am able, I think about good days with you and hope they are good memories for you, too. I’m writing this to say it.
I almost miss the sound of your voice but know that the rain
outside my window will suffice for tonight.
I’m not drunk yet, but we haven’t spoken in months now
and I wanted to tell you that someone threw a bouquet of roses
in the trash bin on the corner of my street, and I wanted to cry
because, because —
well,
you know exactly why.And, I guess I’m calling because only you understand
how that would break my heart.
I’m running out of things to say. My gas is running on empty.
I’ve stopped stealing pages out of poetry books, but last week I pocketed a thesaurus
and looked for synonyms for you but could only find rain and more rain
and a thunderstorm that sounded like glass, like crystal, like an orchestra.
I wanted to tell you that I’m not afraid of being moved anymore;
Not afraid of this heart packing up its things and flying transcontinental
with only a wool coat and a pocket with a folded-up address inside.
I’ve saved up enough money to disappear.
I know you never thought the day would come.
Do you remember when we said goodbye and promised that
it was only for then? It’s been years since I last saw you, years
since we last have spoken.
Sometimes, it gets quiet enough that I can hear the cicadas rubbing their thighs
against each other’s.
I’ve forgotten almost everything about you already, except that
your skin was soft, like the belly of a peach, and
how you would laugh,
making fun of me for the way I pronounced almonds
like I was falling in love
with language.
Shinji Moon, “If I Left You A Voicemail This Would Be It” (via alighthouseofwords)