Leotards

Dancing after cleaning, to Gogol Bordello. Remembered when I was small and taking free (or at least very cheap) ballet classes at Patton Park. The teacher dyed light, horrible green leotards to a reasonable black for the girls. There was an actual piano player, an elderly black man who kept time and a tune for seven year old girls practicing plies in an unheated, but much mirrored, dance studio. I was sent because my feet turned in, a birth related deformity. Of course, all ballet did for my feet was cause me to pronate instead, but such is life. I liked the discipline, the work, the space to move in. I would all my life bruise myself on smaller spaces, having learned to dance in a large open one. A physical courage learned.

Once, I was awarded, "Most likely to succeed in ballet." My brothers decided this was actually said "belly" which turned out to have more truth in it. I accepted this without thought as a child, but to think that back then, my movements were so pleasing. No dancer, not really, but a dancer for myself certainly. I don't move to the music, it moves me. A natural, if not an exceptional one. I still dance, more recently, with a good floor, and playing my music. Have not gotten out the scarves, and the coin belt has lost it's chain - making it too short for my hips. But I will, it has begun.

I would not be younger, even in body. Even my pain is part of who I am. To live without it, without even the memory of it in my scars would steal the lessons learned, the precious experience, the understanding writ on my tendons, scored into my nerves. I cannot separate my body from my mind from my soul, they are all of a piece. I would not be younger in any part, without deranging the whole weave, weft, embroidery. Patches and pulls are as much a part of me as what I know from having survived them.

And so, as the fifth decade rushes toward me with arms outstretched, I stand awaiting the embrace with a wry smile, and a profound satisfaction. Yes, this is the beginning of a very good and interesting story, much to be written, much to be told. A few weeks, a good excuse to get people here. I am so content.


Home, and Loved.

Accessorize

The Knife Through the Head prop, rather late, but when I was ill, I was neither up to taking photos, nor did I want to be seen so green. I think it looked a bit more convincing over my OR hat.



The new, progressive lens, glasses. My brain is adjusting pretty well, although the muscles in my eyes are tired and a bit achy from the unfamiliar movements. Nothing I can't handle, and it's lovely not to have to snatch my glasses from my face every time I need to see something right in front of me. My hand keeps wanting to try, then needs to be reassured that yes, I can see just fine, thanks anyway. Still using the old glasses to drive, since I can glance better with them. Not cheap frames, which is painful financially. But shoes and glasses are not a good place for bargain hunting, winds up more expensive in the end. But I got an employee discount, and payroll deduction, which makes it doable. And I can see to scrub properly. Will facilitate grocery shopping as well. Going to be happy with them, after an initial period of adjustment.

And, they suit. The woman at the eye center picked out a few for me, nixing others, apologizing that she was being bossy, but I was glad of her expertise. I knew I had ultimate veto, but I trusted her immediately. There was a cheaper pair, but it was already wobbly, whereas this pair just sat on my face like a cat who belongs.


Oh, the joys of seeing clearly.

Should

Long ago, I saw a student production of a pretty forgettable play. But a phrase out of it has been stuck in my head ever since, and I find myself still saying it. "Should'a, could'a, would'a, if my aunt was a man she'd be my uncle."

Should never helps. Just because one has plans doesn't mean life will cooperate. Putting in effort does not guarantee results. Hope is more often dashed than fulfilled. Dreams fall apart on contact with waking life. Belief has fueled a lot of misguided missions. We can always choose to love, and find happiness, and live well. But we can never demand love of others, expect to be given what we think we need to make us happy, nor force health and wealth out of the world for ourselves. Life does not guarantee our next breath, why do we so often think we are owed a One True Love, a Great Career, Happiness! and Health? Or any of a number of benefits?

Lucky to be alive.

I once read an interpretation of the Pandora story, where the final evil was leaving humanity with hope. That desire to hold on and keep on trying, beyond reason, and to call it a virtue. Hope, not as the opposite of hopeless, but as the kind of idealism that keeps us from actually solving a problem, instead merely wishing it will get better. Wishes are chocolate kettles.* If wishes worked, a lot of awful people would be dead, I should know.


Worn out and squished out, will be better in a day or so.


*That waxy chocolate that tastes of chalk.

Stones

The massage school that was five blocks away is now right next door. If only I could vault over the balcony and the fence.. I can see their door from our window. They offered a hot stone massage at a discount, which sounded very good to my poor back, and I availed myself of the opportunity last evening. One of the intern students, finishing up his hours toward his license, struggling a bit with using the stones, otherwise very good. A very different touch, pace, than I've come across before, but it worked, felt right. The hot stones kept my tissues warmer for his hands to de-knot them. Today, of course, I'm much more sore everywhere, as I expected. Those knots keep my back in place, after all, and they are all lose and worked over. It's a strange balance, currently struggling for equilibrium.

I also chatted throughout. That happens sometimes, so I let it. Other times, I just want to zone out, not say a word. When I get chatty, I do go on and on. My body is a subject for work and talk, the aging process, my tattoos, skin quality, foot care, comfort, anatomy, bruises, how I became comfortable in my own skin, an examination of my physical presence, the path I've walked. Not a subject that gets much talked about without judgment or rancor, or outside of a medical treatment, or sexual relationship. Because although massage is therapeutic, it's really not specifically medical. There's an element of that, but more whole, less about illness, more about humanity. An appraisal by an interested expert. When original parts and undisturbed patina make me worth more.

Anyone else notice having shorter, thinner eyelashes over the years?