How many old women were once the prima ballerina for the Ballet Russe?
What do they think of now?
Do they still dream of dancing--even with canes or crutches or the hair of children clutched close?
There is a woman in marketing named Kim. I call to ask her questions very early--before she arrives. She will only return my calls if she is sure I am not here. To actually hear our own voices pour together would give away some secret we are keeping. We do not know the other's face.
Maybe she is the woman I passed on the street this morning. We glanced and frowned and went along with our lives. The Claire de Lune was blaring in my heart.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Good Day
I feel a quiet peace. This is a good day. The voices around me are whispers. My own mind is a whisper. What pale cordial brought me to this state? When did I drink it?
My fingers do their daily things--unscrew a cap, press a button, scratch. They move without my knowing. It is beautiful. It is good.
The September Song plays softly. I feel that my body is clean and empty of demons.
A row of colorful journals slouch on the shelf across the room. My hands will touch each of them today.
I am dizzy. I will dance.
My fingers do their daily things--unscrew a cap, press a button, scratch. They move without my knowing. It is beautiful. It is good.
The September Song plays softly. I feel that my body is clean and empty of demons.
A row of colorful journals slouch on the shelf across the room. My hands will touch each of them today.
I am dizzy. I will dance.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
By the Podium
This morning, the homeless-est homeless man in this area rode past me on his bicycle. He said "hey" and nodded his head.
I said, "mornin."
He comes here every day and plays the same game on the same computer. The game is to plant flowers in rows. Every time I walk by, I wonder if he's hungry.
I have never been hungry. Not really.
Somehow I envy his hungriness, his homelessness, his flower game.
When I was younger, I heard a story of a professor who walked out of his classroom. He never went home. He never went to his office. He left his briefcase by the podium. The story was that he walked to the park a few blocks away and never left it. He was pointed out to me once when I walked past this park.
His face was dirty but shining. He was watching a chess game. Something one of the men said made him laugh. He looked toward the sky.
I said, "mornin."
He comes here every day and plays the same game on the same computer. The game is to plant flowers in rows. Every time I walk by, I wonder if he's hungry.
I have never been hungry. Not really.
Somehow I envy his hungriness, his homelessness, his flower game.
When I was younger, I heard a story of a professor who walked out of his classroom. He never went home. He never went to his office. He left his briefcase by the podium. The story was that he walked to the park a few blocks away and never left it. He was pointed out to me once when I walked past this park.
His face was dirty but shining. He was watching a chess game. Something one of the men said made him laugh. He looked toward the sky.
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