Saturday, September 27, 2008

the end : my first venture into short storydom after a very long recess

there is such hope in her voice, small on the other end, a little bewildered to the fact that after all these months thinking she wasn't wanted, wasn't needed... and with one fell swoop she felt lifted again. underneath the brown of her eyes was a gold that pulsed, warmed her all the way into her core. the other end of the phone fell silent once more, and it flipped shut, like a period at the end of a sentence. well, an ellipses. it's a to be continued, she thought, as she gathered her things and went inside to get prepared for the end of the story.

she was wanted.
she was needed.

she took a shower, washed the days' pollution off her skin, thought about the end of the story. the water was hot and at times, too hot, scalding her delicacies as she shaved. she liked the shower better than the bath. it felt more alive and real, and she would always imagine all her iniquities wash down the drain to a place where no one, not even she, knew they existed. stepping out she opened the bathroom door and wiped the condensation from the mirror. it was a clear circle of her face surrounded by a frosted reflection. this was how she felt every day of her life.

she reapplied her makeup, her eyes had smudged with mascara from the steam. she liked it, it was mysterious. she made faces in the mirror, fish faces and sexy faces and innocent faces, thinking about the end of the story. she dressed in her new tank top and dabbed shalimar by guerlin behind her ears and in between her breasts. shalimar by geurlin was her grandmothers favorite, and it reminded her of growing up and watching nanette cook in the kitchen; her heels clicking against the shellacked wood floors, and her seamed pantyhose extending up into her high waisted dress. she couldn't ever see more of nanette, because she was always in the playpen, until nanette picked her up and let her taste the beef bourgenoiuse sauce or the sweet nutmeg cream for the crepes, and she would be nestled in between nanettes chest, shalimar and beef and nutmeg all around her. when nanette died she put a vial of shalimar in her rigor mortise hand in the casket. she certainly would not have wanted to smell bad in heaven.

she walked across the street to have dinner with her friends, and they laughed and drank wine and made fun of men, even though she was thinking about the end of her story. she gave hugs and kisses and went back to her house, where it was quiet and intrusive as she finished off a bottle of sauvignon blanc, creating a beautiful end to her story. she would answer the phone and be told to walk to her door, and upon opening it would discover a big box. but she would realize that as she opened it there were only smaller and smaller boxes packed inside until she got to the last one, which had instead, an envelope. in the envelope would be a plane ticket to a big city, to a place where she could finish the story she had started writing so long ago, and send it off and have it published and win whatever sort of prize there is to win for a well written short story and she would wear shalimar and fall in love with herself and someone else and be golden, just like the center of her eyes.

but she woke the next morning at her table, still clutching her phone in one hand with the empty wine bottle not too far away from the other. between the pounding of her head and her aching back she could hear birds chirping outside, announcing the day as if it were a blessing. a blessing, she thought, grabbing ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet. a blessing is a pleasant surprise, a good return on taxes... this is just another morning, on another day, of another page, of someone else's book.


Wednesday, September 24, 2008

death by glitter

Upon walking into the hotel the other night in a town right outside of minneapolis, we were accosted by a cop in full gear, yelling at us to stay where we were and to keep our hands where he could see them. And you know it is sad when this is the pinnacle of your tour so far: a bored and power-hungry cop at an extended stay screaming at four young girls about to pull a gun, and you get excited because it's the most action you have gotten in the last three weeks. this is my life on tour.

the company i'm working for has a tremendous amount of money, which we only see a little of each week. so in effect, we end up staying in extended stay hotels on the outskirts of town. the amenities include a half kitchenette and running water, alongside coin operated washer/dryers (ratio of 3:6). before this venue, the dancers didn't have a car, and so were forced to bum rides off the other girls who could drive the company car. but our agent broke down and rented us one so we would quit bitching, which we did. and even though it wasn't a very nice car, we were polite and held our tongues, because we didn't want to appear greedy even though we are.

the venue that we worked was a club that puts on m musical acts, so it had a nice stage with no low flying light rafters on top of it, and was in the downtown area of minneapois. both of these facts were great, considering at alot of the venues the boxes are either put in corners with no music or people to be heard or seen, or on a stage that, combined with the three foot tall boxes, smash our heads into the show lights. the venue two days before this one may have some serious damages to it's lights and wiring from my hands, which are now bruised and sore and burned from hitting them and pulling down connector cables.

now there are two different dj's on the tour, both very famous and with thick resumes. i will call the first one dj badass, who is very pleasant to be around, and very nice, very funny, and all around congenial to the girls on the tour. the sencond dj, hereafter dj too cool for school, doesn't talk to us and above that won't let the dancers be within fifty feet of him performing. this means that our boxes get shoved to the back of the club in the opposite direction, and we therefore dance to music we dont like with no body watching. sounds enticing, hm? you know you want my job...

so we got in our own car after the 'show' was over and went home to the hotel, only to be greeted with flashing blue lights in the parking lot. which happened to be there because of a brawl on the third floor, coincidentally enough on rachel's floor. evidently, there was a situation involving a party there where a young blonde boy got jumped and beaten. his face was red and puffy, but i couldn't tell if it was from the beatdown or the fact that (aw, so sad) he was crying. not only was he crying, but his voice was incredibly high and distraught, like a kitten whining. poor thing. the cop was even half hugging him. it's a shitty day when you not only cry in front of four girls, but also when you look to a police officer you dont know for emotional support and physical comfort.


the situation was funny because of two reasons. first, we were coming home from work, ragged and sweaty, with our dance bags slung over our shoulders, completely sober and dressed like we just got back from the gym. and even though people offer us shots all the time when we work, we are under strict policy not to accept them, otherwise we will be terminated from our contracts. it should really be the other way around, because it may actually look as if we were having a good time if we were inebriated. really. second, all of us were doused in glitter, which is probably the last thing i would look for in a violent personality. the infamous drag queen maurauders we were. we seek out the pixies of the world and torture them to death, leaving behind a glitter residue that doesn't come off without oven cleaner and ajax.

really? i thought, as the cop came barreling towards us in his misinterpreted confusion. did we really look as if we would have jumped a seventeen year old boy and beaten him to a bloody pulp? is that how things are done in minneapolis? one of the residents (yes, people live in the extended stay, some have full on decorations and/or pets that they keep in their home) cleared our names though, and corrected his mistake. we walked unsettled to rachels room in silence, past the bloodstain on the carpet (now i understand why the patterns are hideous, you really had to look for the stain... the color and design of the carpet concealed it rather nicely) and into her room, silently understanding that the next tour we go on, we will push for an upgrade in hotels. having a refridgerator is convenient, having my life is necessity.

i slept very uneasy that night, and as a precaution i checked under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the tub before i swing- and pad-locked my door and windows shut. i also woke every hour, which only ensured to calm my nerves until the next hour, all during the night. i was no spring chicken the next day.

the other girls who had to stay longer to finish some reports that no one looks at came back with a story the next day too; evidently, there was a riot downtown minneapolis. where are we? i thought, amused at the idea that the midwest could be so unruly and violent. atlanta's not even that bad in midtown, and it's ghetto as hell. the other girls said that there was a groupl of four girls that ended up attacking a cop there, after exchanging profanities and jeering at the officer as they walked down the road. there was no backup for the officer, so the girls were able to have a quick beatdown and quick exit, and the cop was left lying on the sidewalk outside of the bars in her useless bulletproof vest.

i wanted to know if the girls were covered in glitter. if they were, some shit will go down between gangs here pretty soon.


Wednesday, September 10, 2008

the space between the synapses

someone in the audience said it was like an acid trip. that pretty much sums up my mind and my choreography. enjoy.


Sunday, September 7, 2008

bad acting

kathryne + ad libbing = bad acting. see, i am good at math.


Friday, September 5, 2008

soundtrack to life

topic of conversation.

movie moments. ones that seem as if to be directed solely for you, that have applied elements like the perfect song or set lighting. beautiful moments, crisp ones, ones that don't have any room for imperfection... that bring tears to your eyes just for the sheer beauty of the nature of the moment.

martha's wedding. on the beach, a little place on the coast of queens, at the very bottom. a little nook called breezy pointe. i was the tallest (how strange...), and i walked with my escort first. only close relatives and friends came to the ceremony, which was about fifteen feet from the water and set up like a beach ampitheatre, with a speaking pedestal in the middle of the aisle and an archway wrapped in a flowing tulle material. the walk from the limo was long and the sand sunk underneath my feet, settling in between my toes and underneath my nails. as i stood and watched my dear friend make her walk of a lifetime, in her beautiful white and platinum corseted dress, hair curled perfectly in a bouquet on top of her head, i couldn't stop thinking to myself that someone had painted this day into existence. the wind, which evidently from the name of the town was usually much more violent, was a whisper on my skin, wrapping me in a gentle, invisible embrace. the sky was clear, the color of blueberry jello, and as the sun sank below the inlet it gave the impression that someone was melting cotton candy over all our heads. there was no sound except for her cousin speaking and the soft lapping of waves upon the banks.

as martha and ralph kissed their union into being, bells chimed in the distance, slow and sweet, perfectly timed.

i was alone then, but i was very content. i made circles in the sand with my toes and kicked the water into the city skyline behind us, and thought about the days when martha and i would smoke pot on her living room floor, wrapped in comforters and watching the muppets take manhattan. it was perfect, and it wasn't even my wedding.

or, san francisco. i had gone to a show in soma and met a boy that drove a velo, because it was cheaper and easier to maneuver than a car. he took me to a place called russian hill, just over chinatown, close to the harbor. it seemed like we walked forever, as he was assuring me it was almost over and that i wouldn't be disappointed in where we were going. but when we got there, he got a phone call from his girlfriend and walked away to talk to her, leaving me in a hidden garden in between several houses. kind of like a garden cul de sac, overlooking the island of alcatraz. it was 5:30 and beginning to get cold, and i wrapped my useless hoodie around me, hugging myself.

and then this moment of brilliance, in the middle of silence. the fog that rolled in over the city every night was creeping around me, like dry ice out of the couldrons your elementary teachers would serve punch from at halloween parties.

i was alone then, but i was very content. i watched alcatraz disappear, then the rooftops, and finally, my hands in front of my face. i thought about how maybe the fog would make me disappear with it, and with it as well, all my conflict in my head.

and i cant forget this past christmas. my mother and my two brothers were in the front yard of our mountain house, walking their dogs in the cold. and out of nowhere, snow. it was light at first, a few flakes peppered across the pine trees. it fell heavier and heavier, until the ground became white and crunchy under our feet, and flecked our faces with tiny pricks of chill. i couldn't take my eyes off the sky though, and i remained outside after all the rest grew tired of the novelty. it caught on my eyelashes and hair, and i opened my mouth to taste the newness of the sky falling all around me. it was clean. it was pure. it was everything i felt i didn't have at that moment. the silence was a different kind of silence, where you knew you were alone but could feel all of the life surviving around you, breathing with you, letting you know that this too will pass.

i was alone then, but i was very content. i watched my parents curled in a blanket by the fire, still together after all the potholes over the course of 30 years. my brother and his fiancee, a new chapter in their lives slowly being molded, as they sipped hot tea from steaming mugs, and laughing at my younger brother who was messing with the dogs. i thought about what newness i wanted in my life from that point on, and how i could get my heart mended from the bruised and scarred place it had been before that.

it seems my best movie moments are those that no one else can ever touch. i have been alone for most of my life, waiting for the day that someone else can help me share what i consider to be perfection.

i am alone in missouri right now, not very content. it's missouri, how could i be? but you never know. it could fool me too, for i thought that alone was all i ever wanted in life. i'm starting to think differently.


Thursday, September 4, 2008

even steven

and undone, just like that
off, your silly little
puppet strings
what makes no difference to you
surely grates
my skin and
bones underneath,
sliced clean
to the marrow
for you to chew
while i watch
don't act like
your words
are gentile giants,
soft and innocuous
across the page,
you're smarter than that
and sometimes
so am i. so
don't be my
you're not
and i hate
about it.

you're a smart kid. figure it out, and stop punishing me for it. fighting battles with the only thing that means anything at all to me isn't fair or nice or anything else a friend would do and so therefore, i'm not your friend.

friends don't piss downwind from eachother.
friends don't intentionally burn one another.
and friends don't act the way my mind is making me, so...

i'm sure you have many more that you didn't treat like me to call friends. go tell them your exciting news of labor and love. all it does is make me feel more of a fool than i did before last we talked. i don't want that friendship, where i go to sleep restless and uneasy and insecure. my masochism doesn't extend that far, thank you very much. if that was your effort for a friendship i fear for who you call of them your best.

i don't like it when people play dumb the same way you don't like people to lie to you. and so there, we're even.


Tuesday, September 2, 2008

i like barreling

go past the art of warmth
and barrel wildly into burn

...this is my new anthem.