traveling swallowing dramamine

usurper.

mmmmmmmmmonday and i am pooped.

pooped!

we had our last batch of auditions in the lsu dance company class. one of the choreographers, melissa, is really flexible, and her thing is jazz, and her combination was mostly floorwork--which i suck at. partly because i'm really inflexible, and partly because we don't do floorwork in ballet. anyway, it was excrutiating--rolling around and coming up on our knees--mine still hurt. they will probably be bruised for the next week. this is what i don't miss about being in a modern company--the bruises. the last time i was in a company was freshman year, and my bruises were so huge and dark and plentiful that people would see my shins and gasp. literally. they'd get these pained, concerned expressions on their faces--it was hilarious. my legs looked like they'd been beaten with a bat or something.

so after forcing us to destroy our knees, melissa had us do this weird thing across the floor, where we were hunched over low with our arms curved over our heads, kicking our feet up in front of us. like a cracked out monkey, kinda. we went one by one in a line on the diagonal, and melissa singled me out to demonstrate for the rest of the group how to correctly perform the step. i thought that once i started the rest of the class would file after me, like we had just done, but when i got to the other side of the room i heard this explosive applause. i turned around and the whole class was standing on the side, staring at me, grinning and clapping. i felt like such a jackass.

and now i have a blister on my toe.

don't ever let anyone tell you that dancing is for sissies. dancers are hard. to the fucking core.

unless they're dudes. then they're probably gay.

and we all went to heaven in a little rowboat.

or, as melissa, one of the choreographers, said in dance rehearsal today: "start moving at the part where he says...um...what does he say...it's like....and they all left. in a small boat."

lunch at chelsea's was cool. it was just me and cameron and courtney, because tobey failed to show. we ended up talking about baton rouge and southern culture--which is, um, sorta relevant for a faulkner class, right?--and cameron said he'd never eaten boiled crawfish. so courtney and i told him that we would have to make a crawfish date. (is anyone up for a crawfish party? or a group crawfish excursion? i haven't had any boiled crawfish all season; i've been craving it.)

so i keep having these bizarre conversations with cameron. i guess it started about two weeks into the spring semester. he would come up to me and go, "hey, so, what were we supposed to do today for the faulkner class?" and i would say, "um....the same thing we do every day for  that class. read more of the book and be prepared to discuss it." i mean, literally, we do the same thing every day. every day. the assignment never changes. and i swear he's asked me about it on four separate occasions.

and then today he did his skit for the joyce class, and afterwards, when we were walking to meet with the faulkner kids, he was saying, "i'm glad that's over with. what a relief." except he said it like five times. and then after lunch, when we were walking to the library: "what a relief that's over with. i'm so glad. it's over. what a relief." i was just like........yep.

jesse said he must be trying desperately to make conversation. i guess that makes sense. jesse also said:

geojesslsu: come on ann
geojesslsu: he has a ponytail
grapity purple: i never said i had the hots for him
geojesslsu: hehehe
grapity purple: and he doesn't have cameron rose hair, anyway
geojesslsu: i'm just messing with you
geojesslsu: i met him in front of the library once and we introduced ourselves geojesslsu: he's a pretty nice guy
grapity purple: seems that way
geojesslsu: but wears both a ponytail and combat boots
grapity purple: well, he's from australia
grapity purple: maybe they...do things differently down there?
geojesslsu: is he the crocodile hunter?
grapity purple: you walk around barefoot and had a fro, jesse
geojesslsu: does that make me australian?
geojesslsu: and i did not have a fro
geojesslsu: i resent that
grapity purple: no, but it does mean that you have zero room to talk

anyway. the whole cameron thing is funny to think about but isn't really weighing too heavily on my mind. first of all, he's like 26 or 27. secondly, he's going back to the UK in august. third, even if he were interested in me, i'm not interested in dating anyone. not now, not in the forseeable future.   

however, he does seem like an interesting person, and i would like to have a normal, extracurricular conversation with him that does not involve a) our faulkner homework or b) his Ulysses skit.

i really must eat crawfish very soon. any takers?

fauk!

'twas a breast-filled weekend. verily, i say unto you, nothing makes a girl lose all sense of modesty like having to rip off her clothes (about four layers of tight sweaty cotton-lycra blend) for a two-minute costume change in the hallway of the Music and Dramatic Arts building, while the LSU hip-hop coalition ambles by, waiting for their turn onstage.  at one point, i was tearing off black tights and wriggling into red ones--obviously in a panicky rush--and this random girl wanders up to me and asks me for directions to somewhere--i don't even remember what she was looking for--i stared at her blankly, half-naked and pulling on tights, and said, "um, i don't know." like, "i'm sorry, can you get directions from someone  who isn't naked and in a hurry?"

it's funny, i used to be really shy about taking off my clothes in front of people--i'm talking, like, even in front of my female roommates at LSMSA--i used to change practically inside of my closet. but then came my dance performance junior year--and i was in, like, ten numbers back-to-back--and with all those quick costume changes, you just don't have time for modesty. that was a real turning point in my whole attitude towards nakedness. i don't know, i'm still pretty modest--i don't absolutely love being naked--but there's something different about being backstage at a show--somehow your naked ass becomes irrelevant.

that's part of what i love about doing shows--the backstage environment--it's so intense and other-worldly. the things that go on backstage...if only you knew. but you don't. you can't know: the comaraderie, the tupperware tubs of candy and the bobby pins and the hairspray, the ritual of mutual zipper assistance and shared lipstick, the laughing gossipping nakedness and the secret frenzied energy. that's what's so fun about it: the secrecy: inherent, necessary, because this is what we have to do behind the scenes so that once we get onstage the whole thing runs calm and smooth and, to the audience, apparently effortless.

my favorite moment this weekend: lying on my back onstage for the first number, staring straight up into the darkness, then the music fading in and the lights fading up--and in the dark, from the stage, you can see the shadowy outlines of the audience--but when those lights come up, all you can see is the stage and each other. everything else falls away. the lights come up blazing and it's all i can see and all i can think is "oh shit, it's on." it's the best fucking feeling. i love performing. i'm high for days after. 

i got a lot of love this weekend from my friends, who are awesome and supportive and actually came to the show. i thought that was pretty cool. especially of the guys, who are squeamish about these kinds of things. me and ben and rikki and leif and breton and bradley all went to serrano's after the friday show for margaritas, and i got drunk, and then we went to tabby's, and i got drunker. which was exactly what i wanted to happen. i had my gigantic faulkner term paper (worth fifty percent of my grade) due on friday at midnight, but i had to finish it before the performance, so i'd been freaking out all day. in fact, i'd been freaking out all week. i hadn't gotten a chance to talk to ben in days--we had a fifteen-minute dinner date on thursday before my dress rehearsal--we went to atcha's, and i ordered chicken schawarma and he ordered ashta--and he got his ashta right when we ordered, but my food took a while. and it was time for me to go to rehearsal, and i was starving, and my food wasn't out yet, and i'm all frantic, and ben's like, all soothingly, "do you want some of my ashta?" and in this pathetic panicky voice i say "no, i want my schawarma!" and he's like, "um...ok."

saturday night after the show we all went to the varsity and booty-danced, which was good fun. and then ben came back with me to my apartment and there was an incident on the staircase, and that was also good fun. we went to bed at 4:30, and he and breton went to work at like 9:30 sunday morning. i slept all afternoon, then i got up and cleaned my room and met ben at highland at 6ish. and we read (joyce for him, faulkner for me) but mostly distracted each other. at 8:30 we left to get dinner at izzo's. when we got in my car, he said suddenly, "oh, ann!" and he showed me his neck. and apparently on saturday night i had given him a hickey. and apparently people gave him shit about it all day at work. i was so pleased with myself. i've never given anyone a hickey before. i told him, laughing, "that's fucking awesome," and he said, laughing, "that's your ass."

so we go to izzo's for dinner, and i ordered nachos and he ordered a burrito. but he forgot his money in my car, so he ran out to get it, and in the meantime the guy who took ben's order told the cashier that the veggie burrito belonged to the dude who'd just left. and i said, "oh, he left his money in the car." and so the guy at the cash register rang me up, and then looked at me and asked, "is he your boyfriend?"

what the hell kind of a question is that? what difference does it make? what, if i said "no" was he gonna ask me on a date? i was so taken aback. and uncomfortable, partly because i didn't really know how to answer the question. breton had asked me if ben and i were "official" and i told her no, and that i didn't expect to address the issue with him. but all weekend he kept coming up in conversation with the girls, and i was fumbling for words whenever i had to refer to him--anyway, so Izzo's Guy is like "is he your boyfriend?" and i'm like "um...yeah, kinda." and Izzo's Guy says, "kinda? that's too bad for him." and i don't know what that's supposed to mean either. so i sit down, all flustered, and ben gets his food and sits down too. and i kind of hesitate, and then i tell him what happened,  like, "isn't that weird?" and he says, yeah, that's weird.

so we go back to my apartment. he told me he wanted to read my faulkner paper--which i was embarrassed to show him--and so he read it, and then he showed me his equally embarrassing harlem renaissance paper--and we ended up trading papers and short stories all night. it's hard to explain the significance of this event--sharing your written work. i mean, i guess for non-writers it's not a big deal. but we're both english majors. and for me, it's nerve-wracking having someone you like and respect read your shit--especially if it's "creative" writing, because you're trying to make something interesting, and you're putting a lot of yourself on the page, and so it's personal. but even with formal essays, it's personal--because it's like you're exposing your mental processes--laying out the way you think, the way you formulate ideas--it's all on display. it's you, innermost. and vulnerable. and that's scary. and you want the other person to not think you're an idiot. simultaneously, you're reading the other person's shit, and seeing the way they write/think, and that's a scary moment too--because if i'm reading someone's shit, and it sucks, i have a hard time taking them seriously. that's probably bad of me. but it's true. when i first met jesse, he mentioned that he wrote poetry, and it was very much an invitation for me to ask him to see his poetry, but i didn't ask him. because i was so impressed with him in that first meeting. and if i read his poetry, and it sucked, i wouldn't be able to respect him anymore. so i didn't ask to see it. i read some of it later, though, and it was good, and that was a relief. i mean, if the person doesn't call himself a writer and his writing sucks, that's one thing. but if he's like "yeah, i write poetry," acting like he knows his shit, and then i read it and it sucks--well, i suppose you could file that under "dealbreaker."

fortunately, ben's shit doesn't suck.

so at this point we're intermittently talking and reading and making out, and finally he kinda looks at me, and he says, "um. i'm not really sure how to bring this up. but. um. if we were to go back to izzo's. say, tomorrow. or next week. or two weeks from now....can you see where i'm going with this?" and of course i do but i want to hear him say it. so i say, "no. be explicit." and he says, "ok. so if we were to go back to izzo's, and you ordered nachos, and i ordered a veggie burrito, and i left my money in your car, and i had to borrow your keys and go get my money, and the guy at the cash register asked you if i were your boyfriend..." and i say "yeah?" and he says "what would you say?" and i start laughing and kissing his neck and i say "i don't know, ben, what would i say?" and he says, "i don't know," and i say, "what would you want me to say?" and he starts laughing too and he says "i don't know, i guess it's up to the Izzo's Guy. since he's the one running things around here." and then he says, "because you know, we never really talked about it," and i say, "no, and i didn't think we were gonna" and he says "it's not something that i wanted to take for granted" and i say, "you know, i'm so far beyond that point." and i don't know if he knew what i meant when i said it. but what i meant was that it doesn't even seem relevant, the title of it, and the officialness, because--i don't know--it is what it is. i know, i know, how profound: "it is what it is." basically, we're both in it, and we're both into it, and i suppose that means he's my boyfriend now, and that's fine, but it doesn't really matter what you call it, because what we're doing together is so much more important, and so much more interesting, than whatever it is that we're calling it.

i like him so much.

it's time i had some time alone (and i feel fine)

i'm in natchitoches, gearing up for the third and final week of ADVANCE. i am tired out of my mind. my kids are great. the creative writing class is going well. ben is coming up tomorrow and staying through tuesday night, and that is exciting and a little bit nerve-wracking, but we shall see.

last night was the second dance. the first dance is always a lot of fun; the second dance is usually a little bit weird, and this year was no exception. it was particularly weird for me because i'd been feeling sick all day--so i wasn't in the mood to rock out--or, rather, i was in the mood to rock out but my body was refusing to cooperate. also, jesse and clint came up to visit. they came and pounded on our bedroom door (breton and i are rooming together up here) and breton opens it and is like, "hey guys," and i was late to meet some staffers downstairs for dinner--so i just told the guys hey and booked it--and when i got back from dinner, adam asked me where i'd been--he asked me if i'd been "hiding"--because breton had told him that when i saw jesse i "ran away"--and i was like, "jesus, i'm sure that's what he'd like to think"--as if it bothered me so much to see him that i'd put forth the energy it would take to run away. give me a break.

i mean, i won't lie, it was sort of awkward. but i don't suppose that can be helped. i wish this break-up hadn't been so complicated. i wish that it didn't involve all of my fucking friends. because frankly, i don't want any part of it. i did, once, but i'm so tired of all the drama. so much drama, and so much damage. i wish it would all just go away.

so i went back and reread an old email he'd sent after we broke up. it was the end of a poem--a poem he'd started before we started dating--the end to which he apparently found after we'd stopped.

the context: our first date--unofficial, as i was dating matt at the time--was the honors college winter formal. matt refused to go, claiming that it would be "gay." it was not "gay"; it was a lot of fun. i dressed like a saloon whore, jesse dressed like a cowboy, everyone else was wearing fucking prom dresses. since that dance, it has become a tradition in the honors college to go to the formals in costume. yes, i know, we rock. anyway, it was the most fun i'd ever had on a date--i was with a bunch of la school kids, i knew the DJs because they were also la school kids, and i got them to play fun stuff--love shack and blister in the sun and tainted love and bohemian rhapsody--everyone on the dance floor was freaking out. it was awesome. and we were rocking out. and matt was always so reserved, and he didn't like it when i acted retarded--he would get really embarrassed--but he wasn't there, and so i acted retarded, and jesse wasn't fazed--in fact, he was right there along with me, acting equally retarded--so we danced like crazy and had a lot of fun. a lot of fun. i realized that night that i couldn't have had that kind of fun with matt. he would have been too uncomfortable. so that was sort of a turning point in my relationship with him.

but anyway, jesse sort of fell for me that night--even though he was still dating rachel at the time--and he wrote a poem about it, about us dancing, and the skirt i was wearing--a square-dancing skirt i got from goodwill--red with white polka-dots and white bows along the hem, and it twirled out when i spun.

so the end of the poem:

O AnnMaria: Endnotes

o AnnMaria spinning brightly blazing
in red skirts of passion and dancing
twirling twirling twirling away and away
until nothing is left in my arms
except the space You once filled

You used to dance for me.

but i refused to let our dance fall into insignificance
and so did You, then
and together we were rebels

now here i am stuck
somewhere between laughter and forgetting
while You dance for someone new

and somehow i feel like i’m back at the start ...

the thing is--

i never danced for him. i never. we were at that dance and it was actually a little bit weird, because we were both dating other people--we slow-danced about a foot apart--and all the while i was thinking, "geez, i haven't danced with anyone other than matt in over a year." and if i hadn't had my la school kids with me, i probably would have felt incredibly awkward all night. but because i was with friends, i felt comfortable enough to let go. the incredible thing about that night was not that i danced like a lunatic for him--but that i danced like a lunatic, and he didn't care, and in fact he matched my lunatic behavior with his own. that was what was so cool about him. that he let me be.

i dance for myself. this is significant. i just want to make it absolutely clear. i'm not saying it out of spite, to be contrary, or anything like that. i say it because i've noticed it more and more--when i'm at '80s night, and i'll be dancing with one of the guys--or even one of the girls--it doesn't take long before i'm wishing i could be dancing like a spaz on my own instead of fake-humping someone's leg. i mean, i love dancing on my friends, too. i just like to vary it up. i'm sure as hell not dancing "for" any of them. i wasn't dancing "for" ben that night. it's the same thing when i go to shows. if i go to see a band i've never heard before, i like to go with friends and enjoy the shared experience of finding something new. but if it's, say, one of my favorite bands, and i know all the words by heart, i'd rather be by myself, up against the stage, going batshit and not caring who's watching.

it's between the music and me, motherfuckers. and don't you forget it.

it feels good, the sweat and release of it. and the way you sink into yourself. the first-year staffers commented after the first dance how different it is here--how the dances are so fun because, as bodie pointed out, "no one's trying to fuck anyone"--though that's debatable, i guess, but her point is, everyone is dancing like crazy and dancing for themselves. because it's been a long week, and we've worked hard, and studied hard, and played hard, and now we're going to dance hard, and jump around, and laugh a lot, because we look ridiculous. but we don't care. we know all the words to istanbul/hey ya/salt shaker. and we feel fine.

so excuse us. we'd like to stay and chat. but we have some serious frolicking to do.

sproing!

THE TRAVEL LOG
(transposed and abridged)

July 22, 2004 / Globe bookstore / 3:27pm

just had yummy Globe pasta for lunch. was so hungry. am now tired all the way through to my feet and bones.

found a studio on Narodní that offered open "klasický balet" classes for 150 crowns. went with rikki to the 10:45am class. i hadn't brought my dance stuff to prague; i packed it, thinking that since Prague is a big city i could find a studio that offered open classes--the czech equivalent of BDC in new york. at the last minute i unpacked all the dance stuff, thinking that i wouldn't have time or motivation or money to take dance classes.

then at the student reading last week, a girl from the non-fiction class read a piece about how she boxes back home, and how she was all excited about coming to Prague because she'd found a czech gym on the internet and so she's been training here with a hot czech guy. and i thought: goddammit, i want to take a ballet class in prague. lack of cute (or straight) czech guys notwithstanding, it would be interesting to take a dance class in another language.

so i googled "ballet school in prague" and found an ex-pat forum for the czech republic, and a bunch of postings for this studio called Dance Perfect. i found the school, got the schedule, asked about the dress code. rikki guilt-tripped herself into accompanying me to class. i wore: lana's sports bra, a tank top, black tights--i brought them to wear under skirts, but they're dance tights--they have what are known to dancers as "convertible feet"--which means that the feet have holes in the bottoms; you can wear them so that they cover your feet, or you can pull the tights up over your feet and roll them up around your shins. so i rolled up my black tights. and over the tights i wore--and this is the part i'm proudest of--a pair of black boyshort underwear. as if they were bloomers. which they actually sort of are. they're made of the same knit fabric as leotards. they're cute, they have a pink girl sitting in a cocktail glass on the hip. anyway. i didn't have my ballet slippers with me either, so i wore socks folded down over my heels. rikki improvised likewise, in a pair of borrowed exercise-y pants, a tank top, and folded-down socks as well.

so we take the metro and the tram to Narodní Třida, all paranoid, because we don't know what to expect. there are schools of dance and there are dancin' schools, and i didn't know if this studio was going to be cheesy. (besides "klasický balet," Dance Perfect offers classes with names like "Power Yoga" and "Fit Ballet" and "Street Funk.") we figured it could go one of two ways: either the class will suck and we'll have wasted our time and money; or the class will be hard, the dancers will be awesome, and we'll look like assholes. especially in our makeshift dance clothes.

we pessimistically hadn't considered a third option: the class will be good, the dancers will be mediocre at best, and we'll look like we pretty well know our shit. this turned out to be the case. there was one girl who looked like she'd had a lot of ballet training, but otherwise the class looked like mostly jazz and modern dancers who could sort of keep up, but were far from intimidating. and everyone was wearing tank tops, pants, and socks. ah, dancer fashion. it's hard to explain to the uninitiated, but dancers have this apparently universal tendency to very carefully and deliberately layer on their most raggedy-ass clothes--working hard to achieve the i-couldn't-care-less look. it's ridiculous, but we all do it. apparently even in Prague.

the teacher was a tall, stringy czech man with flamboyant arms; i googled him afterwards and found out that he's one of the ballet masters at the national theatre in Brno. he knew his shit, and he gave a good class. well-paced, but i never felt lost. he was patient and not at all condescending. it was weird hearing the class given in czech, but the whole thing felt very familiar. the teacher referred to the steps by their french names--his accent was kinda funny--and he demonstrated most of the steps, so that was easy enough. i couldn't understand his criticisms or his compliments unless he did some kind of physical gesture along with it, and i couldn't understand his counts, because i don't know how to count in czech. the hardest part was, ironically, the exercises that were most familiar: there are some exercises so basic and so universal that they don't really require explanation or demonstration--the teacher will just say something like "ok, real quick, come to the center, thirty-two changements, just to warm up the feet." and in english i know what that means, but in czech i have no idea. so rikki and i would stare at him blankly, and then he'd kindly demonstrate--but without making us feel like we'd been singled out or were particularly idiotic.

anyway, the class was fun, and the girls were nice enough--no one tried to run me over. some dancers will do that. it can be very cutthroat. i want to go back again next week. hopefully by then i'll be able to walk normally, because i'm sore as fuck today. it had been about two months since i'd taken class regularly. my hamstrings are killing me.

went to a jazz club last night with danielle. the music was alright--jazz fusion--i could've used a glass of wine. the atmosphere was so chill. but i was broke. on the way back we saw this couple get on the metro. the guy was carrying a large box containing an espresso machine, which he had apparently just purchased as a surprise for the girl. she had met him in the station and hadn't seen the box till she got on the train. when she saw it she squealed and started kissing him, asking happy rapidfire questions, and he'd respond all bashfully. it was cute. except at first i didn't know that they had just met up in the station, so i didn't understand how she hadn't noticed the box. i thought maybe he had just stolen the box from Tesco, and that she was surprised, like, "oh, honey! you stole me an espresso machine!"

also, the metro stations are plastered in posters for this art exhibit called "heroes," by ivan pinkava. on the poster is a black-and-white photo of a bald, pasty, bare-chested, weird-looking man. the exhibit information is printed over his chest. every time i take the metro, i have to go up and down the long-ass escalators and see ten of these posters, all in a row, that weird man over and over and over. so when i was coming back from the jazz club with danielle, i said "god, i'm so sick of seeing that man" and she said "it's not a man, it's a woman." and i almost fell down the escalator. i seriously had to re-evaluate my entire world view. she'd shattered my perspective. what is truth? but more importantly, why does that bald man have breasts?

saw a guy working construction in a building near the Staromětská tram stop. he was slim and muscular and shirtless. i made a note of his shirtlessness to rikki, and she pointed out that he had a mullet. he did indeed, but i argued that it was a minor mullet and instructed her to ignore his head and focus on the shirtlessness. then i sighed wistfully and said, "he looks kinda like ben," and she burst out laughing. "you just miss ben," she said, and i told her to shut up. crazy bitch. but yeah. i do.

i said goddamn.

so.

last night i invited myself along with breton and meghan to chelsea's. i didn't particularly want to go out, but i'd be damned if i stayed in this apartment for another fucking minute.

first we went to clint's house and the girls rapidly drank a bottle of wine. jesse was there, he'd been shooting tequila since 6pm. he was drunk. he and clint and jay came out to chelsea's with us, and we met becca there. meghan jokingly suggested that we play cards, and asked if anyone had a deck in her purse. i did, in fact, have a deck of cards in my purse. randomly. so we played presidents & assholes. i don't understand why drinking games have so many confusing and arbitrary rules. you can't possibly figure out the rules when you're drunk. after we gave up on p&a, we played go fish. none of us could remember how to play: meghan made five pairs on her first turn, then triumphantly threw her hands up in the air and said "i'm out!" we pointed out that the object of the game was to make the most pairs, not get rid of all your cards first. then it was becca's turn, and becca had to go fish, so she went fishing. she didn't get a pair, so she kept on fishing. blatant cheating. disgraceful. we ended up throwing the cards at each other and shouting "i win!" a lot. it was most exciting.

although i think the highlight of my evening was when jesse, from his drunken sprawl on clint's living room floor, started waxing poetic about the righteousness of drinking wine straight from the bottle. which is how we were drinking it. i noted that while it was right and good to pass the bottle, it was also kinda sexy having a wine glass in your hand. and he said "yeah, it's all fun and games until someone accidentally pours wine on his penis." and i couldn't stop laughing. that was probably november of our sophomore year. i'd never seen anyone look so sheepish.

i talked to haritha for a long time yesterday. hari is one of those friends you can trust to tell you shit straight-up, and not just what you want to hear. and she instructed me to take it one hour at a time.

so.

today i woke up and read a magazine.
i ate a meal.
i watched some of Pulp Fiction.
i walked down to burbank and picked up my car from the shop.
i ate another meal.
i took forty-five minutes of ballet. my legs were shaking.
i sang in the car.
i took a shower.
i met becca at highland and we talked and went to izzo's and talked and went to perk's and talked. i left feeling grounded in reality rather than mired in self-pity. few friends have that ability; it's something i greatly appreciate.

i stopped by subway to see if adam was going to bingo at chelsea's, and he was. so i met up with him and jessica and laura and aaron and aaron's brother whose name i didn't quite catch. meghan and nicole were there, and ryan, and andrea. i told adam about the break-up and he was kind. i smell like smoke and my ears are ringing, but goddamn, i say goddamn. i got out of the apartment. and tomorrow i'm going to start moving into my new house. i can't wait to get out of this place. it's got bad energy. two major screaming fighting break-ups lived here. mine and breton's. i'm ready for a new neighborhood.

maybe tonight i won't dream.

anguishing is a word.

two carloads into the new house
and
a full ballet class
and
breton said after ben dropped me off sunday night he went to sharky's house to play video games
but
i started the last story in Girl With Curious Hair and it's hilarious
and
after ballet i took a shower and got really cute
and
i met stosh at highland and we exchanged travel stories
and
my cousin patrick sat with us and was generally obnoxious and funny for an hour
and
i walked with stosh to the new house and tried to give him the tour but it was dark
and
we walked to louie's in the rain
and
i devoured a cheeseburger.

but
i slept in the hoover dam shirt last night because it still smells like him.

metaphor assignment: i am a bobbypin.

thursday i called ben to retrieve my computer from his apartment, where it had been living all summer. the rate of exchanged goods had been high in this relationship. i have about five of his t-shirts, three of which he gave me outright, and two he left here accidentally. i have two of his CDs, also left accidentally, and three of his books, which i borrowed. he had my computer, my copy of mcgee's Paperspace, and about eight thousand of my bobbypins.

the bobbypin thing is a function of my dancer-ness. one night in early may, after the LSU dance concert, i had this crazy dream that i was running late for the dance performance, i didn't have my make-up done, i still needed to put my hair up. and i'm frantic in my bedroom, getting my shit together, and i go to grab some bobbypins for my hair and--there are none. i'm out of bobbypins.

when i woke up i told ben about my dream. i laughed when i got to the end--the punchline--"and i'm out of bobbypins!" and he looks at me blankly, and i try to explain that the idea of a dancer being out of bobbypins is ludicrous. you can always tell when there's a dancer living in your house, because there are bobbypins fucking everywhere. under the bed, along the baseboards, beneath the bathroom sink. they're on the floor of your car. they're deep in the front pocket of your jeans. you never know how they got there, but there they are.

i told him this, and he nodded, but i knew he didn't get it. later that day, we ran into rikki, and i told her about the dream, and when i got to the end, she burst out laughing. and i turned to ben and i said, "see! she knows! she's a dancer!"

a couple of weeks later, i woke up at ben's apartment and went to put my hair up, but i'd lost one of my bobbypins. ben said, "wait a minute--" and he grabbed a dress shirt off the chair and reached into the front pocket and pulled out a bobbypin. "you weren't kidding," he said. "i'm finding them everywhere." while i was in natchitoches, he moved from sid's house to anna's apartment on nicholson. and when i came back to baton rouge at the end of june, he told me, with genuine amazement, that even after he'd moved--and before i'd set foot in his new place--he was still finding bobbypins.

the computer retrieval was horrible and awkward. he was busy making plans to go out with sharky and travis, and he'd ask me something, like, "so what have you been up to?" and i'd start to tell him, and then his phone would ring, and he'd talk all excitedly on the phone about their plans for the evening. i wanted to tell him about the books we have to buy for our 4086 class, about how they changed the teacher, and it looks like it's going to be postcolonialist crap, which i hate, and Interpreter of Maladies, which i really hate, though jhumpa lahiri just recently won a pulitzer, and but we're reading some rushdie, and i've never, so that might be cool--

and i wanted to tell him about the david foster wallace story i'm reading, it's about a graduate writing workshop, and one of the main characters is going to a Reunion for Everyone Who's Ever Been in a McDonald's Commercial, and she considers herself a post-modernist, and it's so funny, he would really like it--

and i wanted to tell him that i've taken three ballet classes this week, i'm really sore and my feet got stupid over the summer, and the other day one of the little girls, caroline, she's maybe fourteen, we were waiting for level VI to get out, and i'm putting on my slippers, and i overhear her talking to a bunch of the other girls, she's got a binder on her lap and she's saying: "i am....i am....i am a bra. i am a bra. i...will always...support you...and stay close to your heart. umm....i am...a bobbypin. no, i am an electrical outlet. i make sparks fly. when you stick things in me."

"caroline," i said, "is that a metaphor assignment or something?"

she rolled her eyes and nodded. one of the other girls pointed out that the teacher, mrs. richard, was a nature-loving, pot-smoking hippie. caroline crinkled her forehead. "um, i am...i am a flower! i am! i am a flower, i blossom once a month--what? what, i didn't mean it like that. gross."

i laughed to myself and thought: ben would appreciate this. i want to tell ben this story. but i can't just call him up and say "listen to this." i can't just call him. and tell him this made me think of you. and i was thinking of you.

so thursday night i finally get a chance to talk to him, and when his phone stops ringing, and he looks at me, and i look at him--something in me freezes, or chokes, i look at him and i have to say "there was something i was going to tell you. but i forgot."

we're having a tea party.

today was fallfest. or, as rikki calls it, freefoodfest. they set up various booths in the quad for i-don't-know-what but they also give away hot dogs and hamburgers, which rocks. in the sense that receiving nasty food for free rocks. which it does. rock.

at 10:30 the festivities were officially kicked off by the Grand Entrance of the tiger band, the golden girls, and the LSU cheerleaders. i was about to walk home. i got as far as hill memorial library. then i heard the band rumbling around the corner and i turned around.

i don't have school spirit, exactly. i don't "bleed purple and gold." i'm a senior, but i've never been to an LSU football game in my life, no, not even one, which is some sort of sacrilege here. honestly i don't like football very much. i grew up watching it sundays at my mimi's house, not because i wanted to, but because my cousins, ben and pat, were the only people around for me to play with, and they were always watching the game with my uncle mike. afterwards we would run passes in the field behind mimi's house. uncle mike patiently explained the rules to me, week after week after week after week. but i still don't get it.

i will say that i think the new orleans saints are an institution without which our fair city would not survive--not in any practical economic sense, but in a spiritual one. new orleans has such a loser's complex already; the saints' inability to make it to the superbowl is only too fitting. like any decent new orleanian, i will love the saints unconditionally and forever: i love watching them win--the who dat years--and i love watching them lose. they lose with such style. they lose spectacularly. (did you see the last game of last season? i laughed out loud.)

LSU, on the other hand, actually has a decent football team. they win stuff. they were last year's national champions, sort of? and i'll watch the really big games, and i'll even yell occasionally at the TV screen, even though i'm only half-certain of which direction we're supposed to be running. but for the most part, i don't give a shit about LSU football.

the tiger band, however.

i really like our band. when i hear them play, my stomach gets all fluttery. i don't give a shit about our football team, but i have pride in our band. part of what i like about the tiger band is that the football fans seem to be in awe of them. when they start playing pre-game and everyone's eyes get a little bit moist. it's like summoning the voice of the gods to death valley. i'm not even a football fan, but the pre-game song makes me want to hop up and down and maybe tackle someone. it's powerful shit. which is why, i suppose, there's no Band Nerd stigma here, as far as i can tell. i think that's so cool.

the band t-shirts this year say "Legacy Knows No Boundaries" on the back. what an appropriate slogan for a louisiana institution.

in other news, i took a pointe class today, and sort of wanted to die. then i took a hip hop class, and wanted to die in a completely different way. why, god, why am i so balletic. oh, wait, because i've been taking ballet for seventeen years. still, though. i want to be black. then i'd be strong and beautiful and everything i'd do would look cool, instead of spastic. lucretia was teaching, and i asked her "how do i stop looking like a chicken when i do this?" and she gave me some pointers, including "don't move your elbows up and down." right, okay.

but it's not completely hopeless. because she asked us halfway through class if we knew The Aesthetic of Cool. which we obviously did not. she explained it like this: african dance has a lot of crazy footwork, but you keep your upper body pretty still, especially your head, so your body is doing all this stuff but your face looks so chill, like "pssh, this is child's play." it's the same thing with tap. i can actually do it with tap. i can't pull it off with hip hop, mostly because the movement is so woefully unfamiliar. but. she explained about being Cool and then she said that i sort of had it, or almost had it. i. me. i almost sort of have The Aesthetic of Cool. i am almost cool with a capital.

so there's hope.

this is me.

this is me walking around the house in my underwear. (rikki and reid are in lafayette.) this is me eating zatarain's yellow rice out of the pot. with a spoon, not a fork. and drinking blackberry tea. the tea is to give me caffeinated pseudo-energy to write the paper that i'm not writing. because i'm eating yellow rice and drinking tea instead. the paper is due tomorrow at noon. it's for my 4086 class on india and the short story form. i haven't started. i haven't even picked a topic. it's quarter to ten. instead of writing my paper, i'm writing this post. also eating rice, drinking tea, and hey, playing the piano! i learned a new song! instead of starting my paper! i went to ballet at 5:30 and took the barre, even though i'm so sore from modern class last night that i can't fucking stand up straight. because it meant that i could not-start my paper for a little while longer!

the words "procrastination" and "progress" both start with "pro-". this must be significant. i will look it up. right now.

dictionary.com says:

"progress" comes from the Latin progressus, from past participle of progred: to advance. pro-, forward + grad, to go, walk.

"procrastinate" comes from the Latin procrastinare. pro-, forward + crastinus, of tomorrow (from cras, tomorrow).

aha. even as i "put off doing something"--even in my "habitual carelessness and laziness"--i am moving forward!

pro-crastination. pro-gress.

see, it's totally, like, the same thing.

--------------------
p.s. ...looking for ways to join in the procrastination fun? go read breton's moto post.

anything but.

let's talk about the election.

i cut linguistics wednesday morning because i couldn't drag myself out of bed in time.

i slept for four hours in the middle of the afternoon.

i missed ballet.

today, however. i went to ballet and it was cold enough to wear legwarmers, which is exciting in a way that is hard to explain.

i guess it's comparable to the way you feel on the first day you have to wear a sweater--but not a coat or even a jacket--and the night smells faintly of christmas.

or the way you feel the first time you turn the heater on in your car and the warm air hits your knuckles on the steering wheel. that reminds me of christmas more than anything. more than christmas trees, even.

why does the main office of arts & science have a christmas tree displayed in the corner when we haven't even had thanksgiving break? hodges hall≠ hobby lobby.

on today's episode of My So-Called Life (the one where jordan catalano tries to pressure angela into having sex with him), angela ponders:

people are always saying you should be yourself, like yourself is this definite thing, like a toaster.            

what i want to know is: what does it say about me, that what i want more than anything is to see angela hook up with brian krakow?

blackmailed she fell off every mountain

thursday i drove down to new orleans to see the mars volta at the orpheum. i met up with ross, paul, and adam--they were eating dinner at remoulade on bourbon street. of all the restaurants in new orleans, they picked the one ben works at. but i think he doesn't work there anymore. it was still weird, though. i had a jack and coke. we got the check and i was like "i hope my drink wasn't really expensive" and took a peek and ross was like "seven bucks?" --he was kidding--but it was $6.50. fucking tourist restaurant.

the boys had brought an icechest and a twelve-pack of budweiser, so after dinner/drinks we went back to the orpheum parking garage and sat in paul's car and drank beer. i actually finished a beer. that may be the first time in my life that's ever happened. they were playing the alphabet game with band names--i didn't want to play because i didn't think i'd know enough bands. but they got bored with it pretty fast, so then paul was like, "we should play the -ate game, ann would like that one." and we went around saying words that ended with -ate. masticate, masturbate, fornicate, extricate, explicate, exonerate, dessicate, desecrate, degenerate, generate...

an hour later we had to pee. adam peed in some corner of the parking garage, then got in line for the doors (the line wrapped around the entire block) while me, ross, and paul went to a bar down the street from the theatre. the bartender informed us that we had to buy drinks to use the bathroom. ross and paul each ordered a beer and told me to go ahead. then the bartender said that each of us had to buy a drink, me included. so ross bought another beer for me, and told me not to feel obliged to drink it. i think they ended up giving it to adam.

tickets were general admission but split by balcony; ross and paul both had first balcony tickets, and me and adam had second balcony. we were going to try to sit in the first balcony anyway, but it was mostly full, and we weren't going to be able to find four seats together. so ross and paul went up to the second balcony with us and we all sat together. which was nice. i'm not sure if i've been to the orpheum before. it was kind of familiar. the seats are steep as hell. we were right up against a railing, so we had a clear view of the stage.

it was two hours of nonstop noise. nonstop. cedric (the dude with the sick-in-a-good-way woman voice) sounded pretty good for the first half of the show. he fucking nailed the second half. he was really on. it was awesome. they did L'Via L'Viaquez, which is my favorite off Frances the Mute. i went and stood on the balcony for that one. most of the time i was following the drummer. i want to have his babies. i was disappointed at the end of the show, though. i kept waiting for them to spontaneously burst into flames. but they never did.

the show let out at midnight, then it was off to twiropa for les claypool's frog brigade. i knew nothing about les claypool but ravi had told me to go, and i trust his taste in music, and paul said it didn't matter that i hadn't heard any of it because it would be really good.

so we split up (me and ross in my car, adam and paul in paul's car) and were going to park at twiropa and then all get in one car to find food before the 2am show. except on the way down canal street paul found a wendy's. so i spend like ten minutes trying to find a parking spot on some side street in the quarter, because of course you can't park on canal and there's no drive-thru. finally i find a spot and have to parallel park, which isn't that big a deal, except i tried twice and it didn't work. so ross volunteers to do it for me.

we swap seats and he says: i'm glad i know you.

i say "i win!"

then he parks the car in one try, all smooth, and i say "...you win."

then paul calls to say that the wendy's has just closed.

driving to twiropa, ross is talking about how he's going to quit playing music because what's the fucking point. i know how he feels. after i see a dance performance, i usually feel sick to my stomach, in that i've-been-doing-this-for-seventeen-years-and-i'll-never-be-that-good-ever-in-my-life sort of way. but also like i want to take a ballet class, now. and i'm thinking about how ross is talented, and i don't ever get to tell him i think that, and i should tell him. but he's in a mood, so i keep my mouth shut.

so it's maybe one in the morning and ross is saying he wants to go home, he doesn't want to see any more music. he's tired. then he laughs a little bit short and says, "i want drugs." he gets on his cell phone and calls some friend-of-a-friend who lives in new orleans, and he starts talking about "white flavored party favors" and i'm like, fucking great. you must be fucking kidding me. i don't say anything because i'm kind of reeling.   

we get to twiropa and wait for paul, who is hopelessly lost between canal and poydras. i'm starving and it's not looking like we're going to be able to find food before the show. but finally paul arrives and we all get in my car and ross drives us too fast through the warehouse district and we end up at walmart (closed), a shell station (no convenience store), and finally a 24-hour walgreens on st. charles. everyone is bitching about how new orleans sucks and i want to hit them all. mostly i'm upset with ross. i get a ham and cheese sandwich on white bread and it tastes like glue. the ham is brown. i eat it all anyway, and feel sick.

we get back to twiropa and i have to pick my ticket up at will call. i want to ask ross how fucked up he's planning on getting at this show, because i don't really want to be around to watch. tchoupitoulas is swarming with dirty hippies selling hallucinogenics. ross and paul are getting excited about buying acid. the line for the doors is long. adam and i start walking back to get in line. he asks me what's wrong and i tell him i'm aggravated because i don't want to deal with ross being fucked up. (ross is looking for a silver car.) adam says, yeah, after you've known ross for a while you learn to get used to it. (ross is looking for some guy in line.) adam says he's been really self-destructive lately.

ross and paul join us in line. some guy is weaving through the crowd, muttering "chocolates, i've got chocolates" and ross says, "hell yes." he and paul decide to split one for twenty dollars. it happens fast. i had wanted to pull ross aside but now all i can do is step forward in line, away from them. i keep my back turned.

i know acid is hard to come by. i know shrooms are a treat. but ross gets fucked up almost every night. he gets fucked up to stay awake, he gets fucked up to fall asleep, he gets fucked up just to make it through the day. even my friends who get high on a daily basis--at least they look happy about it. i've never met anyone who needs pot that badly. it's the same with alcohol. i'd say he has a drinking problem, but it's not just a drinking problem. it's that he'll do anything to keep from dealing with whatever he has to face. whatever mood or fear or frustration.

i can deal with him being high (not stoned, he's annoying when he's stoned) and i can deal with him being drunk. but when the conversation turns into him and his friends trying desperately, really, with great urgency in their voices, to figure out where the next bag of weed is coming from, i leave. because it's too depressing. and when one of the guys tells ross there's "something in the kitchen" for him, i leave. i can't watch.

the first time i was ever around cocaine: two overgrown fratty-looking guys with ballcaps and earrings come busting into the apartment talking in terms of grams and i'm sitting on the carpet getting more freaked out by the second. one of the fratty guys asks my friend for his ID and my friend, laughing, offers his library card instead. i'm thinking "how is that going to work as an ID card?" but of course the fratty guy uses it to cut a line on the kitchen counter. it was the loudest thing i've ever heard. and i wanted to leave but i was scared. it wasn't until one of my friends--my favorite, this boy--went into the back bedroom that i realized i had to leave. because i couldn't watch. it's one thing being uncomfortable around fucked-up people you don't know or don't particularly give a shit about. but when it's someone who matters. and they start looking weird around the eyes.   

the night before the show, we were sitting on his front porch--me and ross and this guy michael. michael plays bass really well. ross seems to like having michael around, but he gets aggravated with him really quickly. so when michael starts talking about being at some concert all fucked up on shrooms etc, ross is like "whatever, dude. why do you need to get fucked up to go to a show? i'd rather focus on the music" obviously trying to make michael feel stupid. ross continues: "i'm not really into hallucinogenics anymore. i don't think they're good for emotionally unstable people. i get all trapped in my head and it lasts for so long, i just want to be done with it..."

twenty-four hours later, he and paul have split a $20 bag of chocolate and i'm standing with my back to them, wishing the line would move faster so i could go hang out inside with ravi and edie and jacob.

ross says: wow, ann. you have put us beneath you. in all of two minutes.

i say, still with my back to him: no, it was fifteen minutes. and i just don't want to be around it.

he and paul are trying to talk all jovial but you can tell they're faking it. finally ross says, "why are you being like this?"

i turn around and say,  "like what?"

he says, "you're acting all..."

i say, "uncomfortable?"

paul goes, "you're uncomfortable?" and i say "yes" like i'm mad and he says "oh, okay" because it was an innocent question. and really i'm not pissed at paul. but i do feel sort of abandoned. not just because of the mushrooms. ross keeps at me. he tells me his "feelings are hurt" and really he's not going to act any different and he'll say "hey ann, wasn't that a cool bass line" like we're at any other show. and he says fine, be like that, he's not one to judge. (as if i am one to judge, as if this is about me judging him, and that makes me mad, that hurts my feelings.)

he tells me to stop. i'm not talking, i'm barely talking. finally i say "what about your friend" meaning the guy on the cellphone. he says "what?" and i say "nothing" and he says "no, what did you say" and i say nothing nothing nothing nothing. he says "turn around and tell me" and i think: you know, you're not my boyfriend, you can't do this. you can't make me talk. i don't have to be at this show with you.

so i turn to him and say, "i don't have to have this conversation with you." and he says, "it isn't going to happen." he means the guy on the cellphone. he says, "you don't have to worry about that, it isn't going to happen, i don't have the money and i'm not in the right mindframe, so." and of all the reasons in the world not to do coke, money and mindframe are not the two i wanted to hear. i'm like, "that's irrelevant." because if he had the money and the mindframe, he would have done it and expected me not to care. except i thought the point of this evening was not to get fucked up but to go to a really good show. i thought getting to hear good music with good friends would be enough.

adam is giving me sidelong turn-that-frown-upside-down faces. i catch paul's eye and try to smile because i don't want him to think i'm pissed at him. ross keeps at me. i tell him again that i don't want to be around it because it upsets me to see him like that, and he says again that i won't be able to tell the difference, and i don't know how to explain to him: that's not the point.

inside, paul and adam head for the bar and ross says: we were having such a good night. i don't want you to be upset. i had no idea you would be so affected by this. i would never have done it if i had known.

i'm thinking: i can't believe he's still talking. i can't believe he hasn't written me off yet.

except it's too late for tonight. i'm too tired to pretend like everything is fine. and i'm too tired to stick around and be pissed. i've already called ravi to see where they're standing.

i turn to ross and shrug.

he says "look at me."
he says "don't look at me like that."
he says "well i'm sorry i ruined your evening" and stalks off.

and i start to say: you didn't ruin it, it's not ruined. and i'm still going to have fun, and you will too. just not together.

but already i feel sick. and he looks sick. and he's gone. i start pushing through the crowd (sorry, sorry, sorry sorry sorry sorry) and finally end up in the front with jacob and ravi and edie. ravi asks where ross is and i tell him briefly what happened. he's like, "that sucks" and it does suck but the music starts and it's really good. the guys in the band are wearing white caftans and rubber half-masks with white wigs on top, and les claypool is wearing a smiling pig mask and a bejeweled pharaoh collar. who needs hallucinogenics for this. the bass is beautiful. i want to have skerik's babies. skerik and the drummer from the mars volta. lots of beautiful babies.

so i'm into the music but i'm also feeling like i might throw up. we're in twiropa's gigantic room, and there are a million people, and they're all sweaty and packed in tight. it's 3am and i haven't had any water since 7. i keep looking back in the direction of the bar, thinking really i need to drink some water but there's a sea of people and i'll never make it back up to the front but really really i need water. ravi keeps asking me if i'm okay, and edie keeps asking me if i'm okay, and finally i head to the bar. there are seriously a million people.

i take my cup of water back to the lobby and find a spot on the floor, next to a sofa. new orleans tap water is really disgusting. i'm taking little sips. i decide i will probably leave soon. i pull out my walgreens ham sandwich receipt and write on the back: ya'll be careful going home. if you need a place to crash, call me. then some strange man comes up to me and asks if i'm okay. i'm like, "um, yes, i'm fine." i don't know why everyone is asking me this. to prove that i'm fine, i return to the gigantic room, but i hang towards the back. the shroom guy is walking through the crowd: chocolate, i've got chocolate. it's 4am and everyone looks like hell. people are slumped cold-sweating against walls and bars and columns. some guy holds out his pipe to me and i smile and shake my head. he looks at me like i'm crazy and shrugs.    

at 4:15 i leave. the street is empty except for this pack of boys in front of me. i consider asking them to walk me to my car and decide against it. i turn down richard street and there's this guy on the opposite side, headed towards me. he stops me to ask where the bar is. he's wearing converse. i point at twiropa and then say, "would you mind walking me to my car?" he says, "not at all." he says "look, i'm from austin, is this a bad neighborhood or something?" and i'm like "uh, yeah, sorta."

when we get to my car i thank him but he won't leave me alone. he's chatty and looks sorta fucked up and i don't think he's dangerous necessarily, but he's asking me for a ride to the bar and i'm like "seriously, dude, you see that giant warehouse building directly across the street? that's it. and i've got to go. seriously." i leave the walgreens receipt note on paul's windshield and get in my car. the boy from austin taps on my window. i roll the window down and he says "really i'm not trouble but won't you talk to me for a minute" and i'm like "really i'm tired i'm going to go" and i drive home.

at 5:37, ross sends me a text message: i apologize ann i would never have put u in the situation had i known u were uncomfortable. i am still glad u came.

i put the phone down and sort of fall back asleep and wake up fifteen minutes later, realizing i have to respond. i say: apology accepted. and appreciated. and i'm sorry i was a "downer." and i know you don't understand why i turned to stone and i don't know how to explain it to you, especially not on this stupid phone

he writes back: u don't need to explain. and u were not a "downer"

i was going to drive back to baton rouge friday morning but i didn't actually wake up till 2. we had tech rehearsal for the dance concert at 7:30. tech was horrible. we were stone cold and falling all over the place. when i got home, i sent ross a text message: i'm going to feel weird until i talk to you. are you out for the night? he said: yea i'm about to leave. tomorrow?

but saturday morning was dress rehearsal from 8:30-12. i called jes afterwards for our fabric shopping date, which was good fun. all i want to do now is sew. i'm going to make a cool skirt and a really ugly tank top. ross sent me a text message at five saying that he was sorry he didn't call earlier, he had been feeling sick, but what time is the show tonight? show at 730 but doors at 7.

call was for 6. i was tired by the end of the warm-up. dress rehearsal had been sort of a raging disaster. one of the guys in the ensemble didn't show up till intermission. we'd already done all the pieces he was in. it's pretty much bullshit to miss dress rehearsal. he should have been kicked out but we needed everyone onstage. then in clare's piece, lorrie and i ran into each other. like, full body slam so hard we grunted and bounced off each other. i couldn't stop laughing. they were filming close-ups and we had a small audience. my foot got caught in my skirt and i couldn't get it out, i had to stop dancing, bend over, and disentangle it. clare said i made a really mean face. i fell over at the beginning of alyson's piece because i wasn't used to sliding in tights on the marley. then my costume for jess's piece ended up being gigantic, even though they'd custom-made those tutus for us and we'd had three costume fittings. my straps were about four inches too long and the bust was too big and all i had on underneath was a pair of stockings worn as a half-shirt. as in, i was losing my top and the whole world was going to see my breasts. it was awesome.

so that was dress rehearsal. at ten to seven, i went backstage to finish my makeup and i had a voicemail from ross telling me to have a good show. and i did have a good show. i didn't get caught in my costume and i didn't fall over. the audience was fucking awesome. we stood behind the screens on the side of the pit and peeked at the house during intermission. i couldn't spot anyone, although i knew mom and michael and ross and ravi and stosh and adam and jes and alanna and adam and katie were all there. i fucked up a little in jess's piece and a very tiny bit in rikki's, but for the most part i felt solid.

when i got backstage after my last number, ross had left a text message saying he had to run but he'd get in touch soon. which was disappointing. but i met up with adam and jes and alanna and we went to serrano's for dinner and margaritas. on the way, ross called and said he had promised to go to a show with andrew, and it was half-over already so he was hauling ass, but he "fucking enjoyed" the dance concert and rikki's piece was "badass." and he said he'd call me later. i got drunkish at serrano's and we ended up back at adam's. rikki and leif and ravi and shuchin and deville came over. then me and rikki were falling asleep so we went home and fell asleep. i fell asleep with all the lights on.

sunday i kept sleeping and not writing my short story. i felt like i'd been bludgeoned. my knees looked like they'd been bludgeoned. at nine ross called me and i said "can i come over for a minute" and he said "you can come over for two minutes." and i said "this is going to turn into me coming over and then the whole neighorhood coming over" and he said no, tonight there was a two person maximum. except bryan who lives down the street came over and so did bert. but they didn't stay long. bryan stayed long enough to touch one of my toes and say i had pretty feet. which was weird.

then ross and i walked to the chevron and he told me that he'd worn a nice shirt to the dance concert and someone even told him he looked nice. but i didn't get to see it. we got back to the house and he said "so talk" and i said "what about?" and he shot me a look and said "gee i wonder." and i said "i want to tell you about dress rehearsal first" and he said "you can talk about whatever you want to talk about."   

so i told him about dress rehearsal and then he fucked around with his recording equipment for a while and got frustrated because things weren't working. and i said "well, we could have an awkward conversation instead" and he said "okay, let's sit outside." except he sat facing me instead of next to me, and i didn't know where to look.

he said i know you aren't around it a lot and it seems really grandiose but it's really not a big deal, i don't mean it like that but, and it's not something i do, it's not something i've done in a long time

i said really i could care less about the mushrooms, that's not it

he said i understand you felt uncomfortable, it just didn't occur to me that you would have your feelings hurt, or feel left out, because usually the people i'm around, it doesn't matter to them

i said i don't want it to be like i'm the one you have to watch yourself around, and that's not really what i was upset about, but i don't know how to explain it

he said you don't have to worry i'm fine i can handle myself i know my limits and i was drunk and mostly talking, i wasn't really serious about the acid so

and i said but there was something before the acid

he hesitated. 

(it's funny how lots of my friends do or have done coke, but few of them admit it. and when they do talk about it, they talk about other people doing it, like it's really worrisome and bad. and if they ever admit to doing it, it's something they did "a long time ago," as if it's part of the dirty past.)

he wouldn't say it directly and neither would i. i don't remember what he said. i reminded him of the conversation we had two weeks ago, when he told me that he'd been getting way too fucked up every night. and he said "well, yeah." and i said "so what's the part i'm supposed to not worry about?"

he said you don't have to worry about me.

i said i know i don't have to worry about you.

he said you shouldn't want to.

i said trust me, i don't. but i can't help it.

i said: i don't think i handled myself well at the show. i was upset, but i was being passive-aggressive and that wasn't particularly mature of me. i was impressed that you didn't write me off immediately. because you could have.

he said see and this will sound bad but. this is what i was telling you about relationships and why i don't want to get involved with people. because it's like if someone else is upset i have to deal with that too.

i said believe me, i know. feeling emotionally responsible for another person is exhausting.   

he said the thing is, i wanted to. i didn't want you to be upset. i couldn't stop thinking about it all night. i felt bad that i couldn't fix it.

i said: i got upset because it matters to me whether or not you're okay. or if you're feeling down. and how you deal with it. that's why i worry. even though i know i can't do a goddamn thing about it.

we went inside and he played around with his guitar for a few minutes. it was 3am and i said "i'm going to go to bed soon but."

he said "but?"

i didn't say anything for a while and he came and stood by the door to smoke another cigarette.

i said "is it worth it to you?"

he said "is what worth it?"

i said "all that stuff about getting close to people and feeling emotionally responsible."

he said "it's a tradeoff."
he said "i have to sit down and think before i say this."
he said "this is weird."

i said "what's weird?"

he said "because it's different with you. because i do care whether or not you're upset. or how you feel. and really you're the only one, not that i don't care about my other friends but. it's different. and i want to. and i still fuck it up. but i've been trying really hard with you."

i said "i know. i can tell. and i appreciate it."

he said "you don't have to thank me for that."

i said "it's less about gratitude and more an acknowledgment that i know you're trying. and it means a lot to me. that you'd even bother."

i said: you remember that conversation we had back in january, and you told me you didn't need yet another reminder of how you fuck everything up. i don't want you to think this is proof that you're a fuck-up. because you pretty much had no way of knowing i would react like i did. and you handled it as best you could. that's not to say it was fine. but.

he said: it's worth it to me. i don't think it's worth it to you.

i said: i don't know. it's not like i'm getting nothing out of this. you've come through for me lots of times. and i can call you about whatever stupid thing, that i'm nervous about my thesis defense in three hours, and you call me back to say it'll be okay, and honestly you're the one i want to call when that stuff happens.

and he smiled this tiny little smile and said: that's really nice to hear.

um.

i'm done with school. for the forseeable future.

this is the first time in eighteen years.

i woke up with my stomach in knots. the same knots i've had all semester. it's 9:30 on a saturday morning and i can't fall back asleep.

i'm going to ballet in a minute because i don't know what else to do.

graduation:

may 20th, 8pm in the parking lot behind allen hall.

driving to campus to drop off my last library book, and feeling nostalgic. even though i'm going to be in baton rouge all summer.

when i walked up to middleton to return the book, there were three guys in front of hill memorial library--two trumpet players and a trombonist--playing pachabel's canon in D.

i'd just taken a two-hour nap. and it was twilight. i was wearing a green sundress with ties at the shoulders, and grubby flipflops, and bandaids on my toes where i'd gotten blisters from my dress shoes. they were playing pachabel's canon in three-part harmony and i was returning my last library book. and i seriously considered stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and doing a port de bras, or something.

i kept walking.

i was looking at my diploma folder thing. it's got Louisiana State University embossed in gold on the front. i thought: you know, i'm proud that my diploma says "louisiana" on it. and i'm proud to have been a part of the english department. dr. nardo gave me a huge hug when i got up to the stage. 

i'm glad i got to sit with my friends (rikki, stosh, eva) during the ceremony. i'm glad i graduated with two of my cousins. during the main commencement ceremony, they recognized the new "golden tigers"--alums from 1955. and my mom was born in 1955. which means my grandparents both graduated from LSU before then. and how ridiculous is it, that both my grandparents graduated from college? and my mom, and all her seven siblings.

now what.

i've slept for like two days.

now what.

mallory

katie r. had a slumber party for her birthday when we were in second grade. and her mom told me, laughing, "your legs look like toothpicks!" and i cried.

in my head i'm still stick-limbed and small.

i didn't develop, in the judy blume sense of the word, until the end of my junior year of high school. i continued to make flat-chested jokes for a long time afterwards, out of habit, and people would look at me strange.

it's the same way that i'm startled when i'm around girls who are shorter than me. i was always the shortest. now i'm just slightly below average. the average american woman is five-foot-four. i'm five-foot-two. but there i go again. i'm not really five-foot-two, i'm actually more like five-foot-two-and-three-quarters. practically an inch taller than i claim. but i've been 5'2" in my head for so long that i can't reconcile the extra three-quarters of an inch.

similarly, it's hard for me to reconcile the shape of my body now--the curvy parts--with the skinny kid i used to be, and still am in my head. it's like the platonic idea of myself. not perfect, but habitual. it's like the way my aunt meg kept talking about her jet-black hair--she and her sisters all have jet-black hair--and finally one of them, aunt kay maybe, gently informed her that her hair was, and had always been, brown. not black. aunt meg alone of the five girls had brown hair. she was shocked to discover this.

i mean i don't think i'm fat or anything

(but)

and my mom, she has food issues. like i think she was anorexic for a while. she denies this still. she gained weight after michael, and then she got mugged when i was in fifth grade, and it was sometime around the mugging and before my parents got divorced, i don't remember, but she lost a lot of weight. she bought a scale like they have at the doctor's office, and she used to weigh herself every morning, and i remember going into her bedroom and the scale was on 115. my mom is about 5'8". and i guess we were in sixth grade, at gulf shores with all my aunts and uncles and cousins, and ben or meghan or someone told me your mom is anorexic and i went to her crying. she said, what are you talking about, you saw me eat dinner, i ate a big bowl of red beans and rice. and don't listen to them. they don't know what they're talking about.

she says that now, furiously, when i bring it up. which is very rarely. it's one of those things we don't talk about. remember when you were really skinny.

she eats cardboard food like protein bars, and she works out every day. but she's fifty now and it's not working like it used to. her body is spreading past the boundaries she's set.

they say that eating disorders are about control. i always thought of anorexics as people with an abnormal need for control. but i think people feel betrayed by their bodies on lots of different levels--weight gain, pregnancy scare, acne--how many different ways are there to get rid of body hair--we all fight to get our bodies under control. some semblance of it.

and what does it mean to resign yourself to the inevitable. because ultimately it's a fight we're going to lose. for the most part i think we're vain until we're pretty much dead. i tell myself every summer that even though i feel self-conscious in a two-piece bathing suit, i might as well wear one now. because eventually i'll be too old to pull it off. enjoy it while it lasts. i wish i could enjoy it. i think about how i'm going to look back in twenty years--i'll be wearing a matronly one-piece--and i'll see pictures of me from this summer and i'll think how great i looked. and if only i could have realized it when i was twenty-one and stupid.

i think my mom has given up on being a size four. she used to say that she couldn't afford to gain weight, literally, as in she couldn't afford to buy new clothes to fit her. but i think she bought some new jeans. they're cute. i can't help but notice that her ass is bigger. it upsets me that i notice. but it's also payback. for all those times my mom has told me "you look good, you look like you lost weight." beginning my junior year in high school, when i went away. why would you say that to a sixteen-year-old girl.

and the time i actually did gain about ten pounds, between eight and ten, which on me is a lot. my jeans were starting not to fit. and my mom set me up: a book with calorie counts for every food imaginable, a membership card to curitan's, and a lecture on how to do the math. it was the summer between my junior and senior year; i'd hurt my back dancing and had to take a break from ballet. i didn't have normal work-out clothes. i was the one on the treadmill wearing a thrift-store shirt, jazz pants, and blue converse. easy mac has 250 calories. but an apple only has 70. so. i was reading cookbooks for fun. i was hungry all the time. i've never been so obsessed with food in my life. i didn't even lose weight until i went back to school and started dancing again.

never again, never never.

but i can tell you that a double-stuf oreo has 70 calories. a regular oreo has 50.

you've lost weight.

this is a compliment.

janey saw me at the end of the summer and told me, you've lost a ton of weight.

even if she doesn't mean it as a compliment, i take it that way.

breton told me when she came back from france. you've lost weight. but when she says it, she means: what the fuck is wrong with you?

here: i've been waiting tables thirty-five hours a week since june. i haven't bought groceries in four months. i eat whatever i scavenge at work. a piece of quesadilla will keep me going for a few hours. maybe one full meal a day. and i'm on my feet, running my ass off, serving queso-covered fried stuffed jalapeños to a woman who orders a salad on the side, and a diet coke to drink. my idea of a joke.

and even though i look like shit. look at my facebook picture, i'm gray in it, and that was partially because of the hurricane but i don't think i looked all that healthy beforehand. even though i look like shit, and breton is saying "you're too skinny, eat this," i still take it as some fucked-up validation.

it's like when girls say oh i haven't eaten all day. oh god i'm getting so skinny. how unhealthy of me. when they're secretly proud. it's like when breton, even breton, says "i always get skinny waiting tables." and it's not skinny in a good way, but it's still skinny like a fuck-you merit badge.

i weighed myself a few weeks ago. my roommate has a digital scale in the bathroom. 100.5 pounds. that's the lowest my weight has been in a really long time. i can't manage to weigh myself again, though. i'm sure it will be higher, as it should be, but i'd rather not know.

my mom was taking ephedra back when it was trendy. she knows better. she's a registered nurse. i couldn't convince her to lay off. she finally did, i don't know what prompted it, but then she moved on to some other "supplement" that was supposed to kick up her metabolism. or suppress her appetite. she said it made her "pretty spunky." like aggressive.

i don't want to become this. i want to tell her to be a healthy example.

in ballet class i stare at the other girls' stomachs. mine isn't flat. some of the girls have flat stomachs but occasionally i catch them in an unguarded moment, relaxed instead of pulled-up, and their bellies curve out. these are fourteen-year-olds that i'm comparing myself to. these are prepubescent girls. i am almost twenty-two.

there's one girl, mallory, who's been gone about six months. she's the reason i wrote this post. mallory is about sixteen, i think. she was a strong dancer, muscular. you know how some people say muscular when they mean chunky. i don't mean like that. i mean she had great muscle tone. swimmer body. then early last spring, she started looking like she was about twelve years old. she dropped all this weight. she didn't have any excess weight to begin with. she got so small, bony arms, pink tights sagging at her ankles. she was obviously going through some shit, obviously had an eating disorder, but still coming to class. week after week. it kept getting worse. finally i asked another little girl if she knew what the story was. she told me mallory swore she wasn't anorexic but her mom was making her drink ensure.

finally mallory stopped coming to class.

i saw her back for the first time on thursday. she looks about the same as when she left. but she's out now, she's got an acknowledged eating disorder. she wants to be in nutcracker but she had to gain half a pound by auditions on saturday. i kept staring at her during class. the bones of her, childlike, the dark sunken cavities in her face and the lines carved around her eyes. childlike but scary old at the same time. fuck-you skinny. i went to get water between combinations and there's a picture of the 2004 senior company on the wall. there's mallory grinning up at the camera, full face, broad smile. i wanted, a little bit, to cry.

but at the same time, inexplicably, i was angry all class. i wondered how she looked at the rest of us, what she thought. did we disgust her. i looked at the other girls and for the first time i didn't see stomachs and thighs. instead it was all this flesh, muscle, it seemed so extravagant and beautiful. and we fight it every fucking day. hours in front of the mirror in a leotard and tights. no one likes it. so what the fuck is wrong with you. that you would do this to yourself. we're all in it but we cope. we're in it together, except for you, off in the corner, fighting your body for your life.

strange breed

last night during barre at the CAC studio, we did a pied-en-main stretch. it's a standard ballet stretch that translates to 'foot-in-hand,' and it goes like this:

with your right hand on the barre for balance, lift your left foot in front of you. bend your standing leg (right leg) and take hold of your left foot with your left hand. use your hand to extend your left leg as high as you can in front of you. then straighten your standing leg, still with foot in hand. you're standing up straight at this point. now let go of your foot and fight with everything you've got to keep your leg from dropping.

then you do it again to the side and the back, and then again on the right.

the average dancer tends toward either strength or flexibility. the above-average dancer, of course, has both incredible strength and grotesque flexibility. but your run-of-the-mill type, or dancer-in-training, can either get her leg up, or hold her leg up--it's hard to do both.

for example, with this stretch, i can get my leg to about 150 degrees à la seconde (to the side). that's not very high by dancer standards. but when i let go of my foot, my leg pretty much stays where it is.

on the other hand, this girl from my class can wrestle her leg up to her shoulder. but when she lets go of her foot, her leg falls to about 130.

so in class last night, greg is riding her, come on claire, you've got to keep your leg up, don't let it drop. do not let it drop. he tells her: it's just willpower. it's sheer force of will. you have to decide not to let it drop and then you just don't let it drop.

obviously we are mortals, with real physical limitations, and it's hard to convince a dancer doing battle with her quadriceps that all it takes to keep her leg up is willpower. but greg, to lend credence to his claim, tells us about a studio on 52nd street where all the crazies took class, mostly russians. they were doing pied-en-main, and the teacher was telling a dancer, "don't drop your leg. do not drop your leg." finally he went up to the girl and, holding a lighter beneath her ankle, told her to let go of her foot.

"and do you know what," greg says to us. "her leg actually went up."

6:30 class

i.   pretty adage from jarina -

prepare croissé, R foot front
step R into pencil turn
step through L
temps lié back onto R foot, arms circle through fifth downstage arm (L), upstage arm (R), arms through first,
developpé L through fifth à la seconde, ronde de jambe into arabesque, plié, pas de bourrée (close L front, croissé fifth).
port de bras toward downstage,
roll up center with arms in first, open second
lift upstage (R) arm with downstage (L) leg dévant
contract, fall back (step L, R), prepare croissé, L foot front
repeat other side.

ii.   catherine took class with me tonight. she's been out since our senior year of high school, i think. six and a half years. i knew the class would be kind of fast and totally different from what she's used to. (the class structure at lelia haller: set thirty-minute barre; three set port de bras/adagios alternating weekly; and more exercises than combinations, e.g., straight brisés across the floor, ad infinitum.) i was worried she'd either be too afraid to come tonight or she'd come and feel discouraged. instead she came, stuck it out, and said to call her if i was going again next week. she's a brave woman.

iii.   dancers have it so good. i can't think of a more perfect way to get off your ass and get your body moving. you work towards strength and flexibility. you practice control and balance. your core muscles are always engaged. you've got an expert/coach/taskmaster setting the pace. you're surrounded by friends who are both compatriots in despair at the impossibility of each exercise and corivals spurring you on to work harder. you're learning great music. you're dreaming art with your body. you're remembering to breathe. nothing matters outside of this: your toes, your arches, your ankles strong, your legs extended, your hips open, your torso over your hips, your head over your shoulders, your arms, your wrists, your hands, your fingers. the next step and the next step. i have wept through a saturday morning barre. it doesn't matter. whatever it is dissolves as you do your pliés, tendus, dégagés in order. you keep breathing. you focus. this is what comes first. this is what you require for base-level functioning. your lungs are open and your body is honest and thorough and tired.

iv.   about three weeks ago, jarina and i were walking to our cars after the tuesday night class. i hadn't been to the new orleans studio in almost a month. i'd been sick, i'd been busy, i'd been a little depressed. the first good thing i do after i've been sad for a while is go back to regular class. i tell jarina that i've probably been to class once a week on average for the past six weeks, and this isn't enough for me to feel like i'm staying in shape. twice a week keeps me at level maintenance, but i really need to go three times a week to feel like i'm improving. except, i tell her, it's hard to keep up that kind of commitment.

we turn the corner and she says, "well, you have such beautiful technique, i don't think it's an issue of needing to improve. but three times a week is good for the cardio, you know."

my heart stops a little. i say, "i need more polish. and my line might be good if i could get my leg up, but i have no extension or turn-out to speak of. "

she laughs. "oh, who cares?"

v.   tonight, i'm on my right leg at the barre, about to go into a penché. jarina comes up behind me. she snatches my left ankle and pushes my leg up to about 170. i'm clinging to the barre with both arms, gasping, "jarina!"

"go down," she tells me. she's got her tough face on but she's smirking a little. "this should be at six o'clock."

i come up to first arabesque and she pulls me up by the ribs. i grow about four inches.

"thanks," i tell her, and mean it.

vi.   this is how catherine became my first friend. i started pre-ballet at lelia haller in early fall of '88. i started kindergarten at SCS a week or so later. there was some kind of kindergarten open house or orientation; i remember being a little bit dressed up and everyone's parents were there. it wasn't like the first day of school. we didn't stay very long. and there was catherine, and we recognized each other from ballet class, and our parents talked. and so we were best friends.

vii.   she lived off metairie road, right by SCS, and i lived off veterans, five minutes away from the lakeview studio. her mom drove me to and from ballet most days. on the good days, she'd pull into the driveway and my dad would come out to chat with her and catherine and i would escape from the van to play on the lawn. rachel was carpooling with us by then. we had been promoted from pre-ballet to basic and our favorite game was nature fairies. for recital the teachers glued cut-outs of the costumes for the different levels to posterboard and displayed them on the wall between the two dressing rooms. this was huge. we ogled the big-girl costumes. sometimes everyone's costumes were related, like the year we did sleeping beauty: the big girls danced the fairy variations and the little girls, or munchkins, were also some generic fairy group, and we all danced together. the year we started playing nature fairies, we were sapphires for some jewel-themed little-girl piece and the big girls were nature-themed. one of the big-girl costumes was yellow with a rose on it: sunshine rose. i think this was alyssa's, which may explain why i was obsessed with it. we each picked our favorite. if i remember correctly, catherine was rain and rachel was winter. i was sunshine rose. these were our alter egos. we were the nature fairies. miss grace would pull up to my house, the first stop after class, and if we were lucky our parents would talk at length about boring adult things and we would scramble out to the lawn to assume our alternate identities. our weapons were our birthstones, which we threw like thunderbolts of jupiter. i'm not sure what the enemy was, but we obliterated it with opals, rubies, and diamonds. the nature fairies: ballerina superheroes.

viii.   i've got on my blue leotard with black tights pulled up to my ribs and pink hipwarmer shorts. cat's wearing her dark green leotard with a long-sleeved CCC shirt over it, her black ballet skirt, pink tights rolled up around her ankles, bright canvas shoes from sansha that she just bought today before class. the dark green leotard is actually her sister sarah's, but cat used to wear one almost exactly like it.

we're facing each other at the barre, this is the first time since probably we were fifteen. now we are twenty-three. she looks at me in my leotard.

she says, "last time i saw you in a leotard, you didn't have any boobs."

vix.   my first bra looked like the top half of an undershirt, with a soft wide elastic band at the bottom, circling my ribs. the beginnings of breasts are awkward, bulbous things. the adults called them "breast buds," which made me nauseous. catherine was always a head taller than me and she developed about three years before i did. every girl suffers the shame of her strange body alone. it's a humbling experience. if you develop late, it also teaches you empathy. i was sorry for the whispered rumors of your period, making fun of your big sweatshirt, you pretending you didn't know what midol was for. i remember the first time i wore a bra under my leotard. i remember where i was standing: at the barre along the wall between the dressing rooms. it was the half-shirt bra, visible above the back of my leotard, and this was humiliating. what was worse, to have everyone know you were wearing a bra, or to have everyone see your breasts in your leotard? these were terrible options. later we would buy leotards with lining, leotards with shelf bras. sports bras ruin the line of your back in a good low-cut leotard. eventually i stopped caring. i had a leotard with wide-set camisole straps and a low back, unlined, but where's the joy in that if you've got on a thick ugly sports bra? at ailey we could only wear black or white leotards. most of us wore black, but there was one girl with a beautiful white leotard. we're all pouring sweat because there's no A/C in the studio and it's july in manhattan, and this girl is soaking wet, you can see her nipples dark through her white leotard, and no one gives a damn.

swallow all the halos out of you

i went to ballet tonight. it was my first full class in about three weeks.
i almost slept instead because susan was teaching and she's hard.
but i went and i'm glad and now i'm sleepy and my hips are sore.

we did this combination across the floor:

double piqué turn (arms in fifth) into first arabesque
tombé over, pas de bourrée under
step sousou to prepare
double piqué turn (arms in fifth) into first arabesque
tombé over, pas de bourré under
step sousou, step to prepare
double lame duck into croisé first arabesque
fondu, fouetté relevé (arabesque leg to devant facing back corner, arms in third)
step out of it, contre temps
piqué turn, piqué turn, piqué into first arabesque

the first half of this combination - the double-piqué-turn-into-arabesque - is pretty hard. you're traveling diagonally forward, turning on your right leg with your left toe at your right knee - spinning twice in this position on the ball of your right foot - then stopping yourself in the turn sort of magically, without bringing your right heel down, so you're still balanced on the ball of your right foot and facing the front corner - and as you magically stop turning, you simultaneously shoot your left leg out behind you into arabesque - and balance there for a second before falling forward to continue the combination. it would be hard just to do a clean single piqué turn into a decent arabesque. it's hard to do a clean pirouette and stop on relevé, period.

this is typical of susan, to give us a combination that doesn't really make us feel good about ourselves. even though i'm an advocate of positive thinking, i spend most of her classes mumbling to myself about how i'm going to totally scew up the combination. i realize this is self-defeating and i shouldn't be such a perfectionist. the truth is that you hear a lot of this kind of talk in ballet class. it's annoying and rarely grounded in reality, as it tends to come from good dancers who are unreasonably hard on themselves. of course, the best dancers are the confident ones. i am finally beginning to understand - the incessant perfectionistic inner trashtalk monologue is crippling.

(it took me about two years to figure out how to get through a level VII ballet class without panicking - by reminding myself that even if i can't do everything perfectly, i can at least finish every combination, and i'll never improve unless i try stuff that i can't already do.)

so the combination susan gives us is hard. but at least it makes sense, it flows well, and it would be pretty if we could do it right. as usual, i think at first that i'm going to fuck it up, but then i try it on my left side (my better side for turns) and i manage to do a decent single turn into arabesque. i discover that the arabesque actually helps stop your momentum in the turn. so this won't be so bad. not totally humiliating, anyway.

we finish marking the combination with the music and line up at the back corner. i scurry to the end of the line. i'd rather go last unless i know i'm not going to suck. evidently, no one wants to go first. susan calls out: natalie, charlotte, stephanie, emily. reluctantly they step up to take their preparation. susan is about to start the music but there's a scuffle in the corner. what's the deal, susan wants to know.

charlotte, who is lanky and practically six feet tall and sixteen, says: "i was trying to get miss quadruple to go in front of miss single."

she's referring to natalie, who's standing behind her. natalie is fourteen and has been promoted semi-recently to level VII (although she was long overdue). natalie spins, as they say, like a top. she just goes and goes. it's wild. she knocks out quadruple turns with no problem.

charlotte does not want to do this pirouette combination in front of natalie. she wants to stand in the back.

"what," susan says, confused. "miss single?"

charlotte sighs. this is getting overblown. the whole point was that she didn't want to draw attention to herself. "i'm miss single. natalie is miss quadruple. i don't want to go in front of natalie."

natalie says, smiling and a little sheepish, "i can't do it today."

susan looks pained. "how's this," she says. "how's about today, charlotte, you're miss quadruple and natalie is miss single."

charlotte is a good-natured girl but she rolls her eyes. "yeah, that sounds great."

we do the combination on the right side. susan is watching charlotte, still with that pained look on her face. she stops her before their group starts the left side.

"charlotte," she says briskly. "why are you miss single?"
"uh... i don't know."
"well, what do you need in your pirouette?"

you're never sure, when a dance teacher asks a question like this, whether or not it's rhetorical. charlotte starts to answer but susan is too excited.

"you need attack, charlotte! attack! and what else do you use in a pirouette? you use your arm - the leading arm whips out - that gives you momentum. that arm has to be connected to your back to help you turn." susan looks at the rest of us. "everyone practice. this is for everyone. and you use your spot. you whip your head around. and what else?"

the class is spread out across the studio, feeling our arms connected to our backs, double turn into arabesque.

charlotte tries a couple turns. they're not perfect but something clicks for her. "oh," she says, and smiles.

this is why i love susan. her impossible classes and her good intentions and the way she looks sort of tortured if she thinks we're feeling discouraged. so she stops the class and we work it out.

when i go to do the combination on my left side for real, i start off with a double turn into arabesque without any trouble. susan tells me it's nice.