Making choices...

This is not poetry tonight, I fear.

No. It is just me.

Scared. Afraid. Alone. Happy...

...and full of decisions and...wants.

Tonight I will not be going to Tango.

This may seem like a bit of nothing: something simple. So, what?

Well, to me, not going to Tango, tonight, is like not breathing.....right...so...I am sitting on my bed, and all I can think is what Berretin looks like with the lights low, the way my dress would feel, were I to be moving in it, pressed into a friend or strangers arms, the sound of the bandoneon...all of it leaves me delirious....and yearning....longing to put on my dress and go dance...even if it is only. one. song. It is all of me: everything. It is worth everything.

....but.

I wish, also, to be with myself. And be wise.

(Yes. Sleep is good. Sleep is best. Sleep is needed if you wish to keep on dancing)

Sleep. Rest. For once.

But...there are...so many choices, you see.

I am moving.

Yes. I am moving. To San Francisco. In...just a month.

And my heart and all of me is...aching. FULL of aching. That is the word. I ache...with so much.

I have found this blissful happiness, you see...but...

Suddenly, here, with Tango. With these people. And this dancing. With all of it. What's going on in my life.

And.... I could...stay.

I could just stay here. Yes. I could.And be perfectly happy.

I am falling in love with....ALL of these people. They are all of them so kind and passionate and intriguing to me...and...different. And I felt...for once...last night...a kind of...home. Of sorts. No...not a home, but...I have never belonged anywhere, really. You see. But...last night....just for a moment... I suddenly felt... I am a part of this puzzle...and there is...for once...ROOM for me.

I keep wondering, why? Why now? Why do I have to have only begun to become part of something, and met all of them, and discovered it all....right before I have to leave?

Well. I do not have to leave. I could be completely happy here:

If I just stay. Eat food and drink, share stories, throw parties, become part of a full and wonderful life...travel...engage...all of it. (Not just with Tango peope, either...everything here is unfolding), and yet....

............yet...

I can see it. Peaceful. Lovely.

....and still that part of me which says:

......and then?

Beyond words. (A Tango).

Do not speak to me in words, if you are not a poet.
Unless you speak in Shakespeare,
'Singing ink & parchment paper'
Do not speak.

Instead, speak to me with your body
Explore with fingers and lips
Sighs and sounds and smells
And many other things.
Make music out of hands,
Of feet, of floors...
Quiet, sleepless. Speechless.
And passionately articulate.

Discover and uncover me,
Step, by step.
Changing in and out, creating time.
Uncover.
Speak to me:
Write new words with your eyes.
Our bodies, together, will make a whole new language.

But do not speak.

A catch. Under the pink.

Yes. It's there. Funny as it seems.

I am so joyous these days. So happy. So full. With dancing and Autumn...

...and the excitement of things changing, moving. And the fear. But all good.


But there it is. Still.

Underneath.
I had almost forgotten it was there, in all this happiness. But it is. It would be cliche to say so, but it's true: once it felt heavy....but now. It feels like...a cut...a wound....a scar, that keeps re-opening...tiny...small, yet....unmistakeably there.

Underneath the pink.

I had forgotten. The little sting is something that dulls, that you get used to......you learn to live with it there. Forgetting, but it hinders...and opens, every time you take a breath, or turn your head the wrong way....it re-opens. Never quite healing. And ignoring or growing accustomed to it....does not mean it goes away.

It will surprise you, when you least expect it - go to reach for something new. There it is.

I can marvel at it now, though....like someone watching the hurt. The little ache. That catches my breath....that comes upon me, suddenly and quietly in the car. When I cry.

Sudden. And soft...and deeply still.

I will go dance tonight....and as much as I want you out, you will be there with me...part of my anatomy now.

The hurt. That's all I remember now. Most days.

But there s a softness, too. A sad understanding sweetness, knowing that I will never have it sweet again, like that. Knowing that I don't want it anymore. But still wishing I could feel it again. It would be.....so sweet. Something new.

The only way to heal is to move on....but I cannot move on denying what is still there.

Saying it is gone, when it's all too clear....

...some part of me is still there. Underneath.

With the warmth of that first summer....and all the winters that passed.

To dance...

If you look closely, when I dance, you can see every part of me.

My best friend said once, "you have very few secrets...but many layers."

When I dance, they are there: you can see them: every memory, every feeling, every nuance, unfolding one by one, til I am stripped bare.

It is not a choice. But, rather, the only time I feel fully alive and all of me...on purpose.

There are moments when we wake or step outside...hear the wind...the trees...smell the air or baking bread....or taste the freshest apple...deep red wine...honey...another's lips....moment's when life rushes into you. And for an instant, a breath...a day if you are so lucky...we are like gods. Full of life and ecstasy and wonder.

But dancing....dancing is the only time I come close to that...on purpose. On my own. Even that is a step away...is lacking something of the fire....more....as though I would rush the life right out of me: sing it, scream it, bathe in it and...pour it into the world. It is the exhale...

But it is what I do.

If I could have anything else....I would fly. Short of flying...I must dance.


"Jongleur"

We sing. Speak with our limbs,
Our voices echoing our hands
And the stories pour forth
To drench the world in
Fire; in the melody of
thoughts and hearts
Of hurts and hopes
(Long stifled, smothered, suffocated
Beneath
the Numbness; Muteness of
'Every. Day. Life.')
Aching to be set free
To be made flesh...
Now
Speak the speech, I pray you...
Trippingly, as it were
Upon these boards
And I will show you
- in silent singing-
What a heart is truly made of
And all the world's great longing.


* (When I have a company...this will be our mission statement...or something close to it. Hmh-hmh).

A change in the wind...

I'm here. And there. And everywhere this month.

So much to keep me busy.

But some things do not go away.

My stomach is tense, I am pulling in my gut so hard, I can barely breathe, but it's the only thing that seems to keep me upright and walking.

Why is this so sad to me?

Nothing to be done. I think i just ended it all. If it wasn't already over-- for the life of me, I cannot tell. I know what I want.

What I want is you.

What I have always wanted is you. But I cannot live in still life, hanging on crumbs and the odd word.

Life goes on, without or without the sweetness of your love. It goes on well.

This hurts so, that I would rather pluck the wanting out of me than wait one more moment, living unsure and in neglect. But rip and tear as I might, it only grows stronger.

So I have to just eave it be.

I cannot believe I am back here again. Again. Again.

Each time it repeats, it is still a different pain-- fresh and new. I think I have become accustomed to this ache...and then suddenly it takes over me...always there. Underneath all the joy I am feeling, all the happiness and adventure...it's still settles in my stomach and waits and waits.

And I wish I could take my words back...but I know them to be true. And I nw it will not make a difference one way or the other.

Nothing i say seems to matter to you.

I feel like a child...myself at 5 years old, standing there...staring...arms spread wide: Why won't you hug me? Why won't you hold me? What have I done?

But then I remember, yes. All this started because I wanted you told hold me: I missed your arms. And you did not want mine.

And now I am punished.

For wanting what I thought was mine. My love. For wanting you...and not just wanting me.

I'm sorry.

Just a moment

PLEASE

Just a drop
Just a taste
To see if there is
something here I forgot...
Somewhere
In my childhood
Something familiar
A taste of honey
In your secrets
Brushing hair
And lying on soft pillows
Breathing in
New
Scents...
Somehow familiar.
The smell of sugar
The color amethyst...and sun.

On New Year's Eve, I wrote...

In 2010, I learned these things:

1.) One must embrace all things and learn to make friends with those things that you resent in yourself and in others-- not banish them-- because YOU are ALL of you, and to love only part of someone is to not accept/see them for who they truly are. To hold close what you fear, is to learn who you are. Only then can you let go.

2.) To love change, even when it is terrifying and lonely. There are no ends. Only a constant flow. Do not believe in anything that seems certain or stationary. It is an illusion.

3.) To let go,by not letting go. To breathe. To feel. To be still. To see-- one thing at a time.

And...to BELIEVE.

4.) No matter what they say...no matter what your mind tells you, you CAN do anything. The only thing that happens when you say, "I am too old, fat, ugly, different, _______," "it's too hard," "I'm not good enough," etc. is that you let yet another year go by without living. Embrace that which you love. (It will only be the same story next year if you don't).

5.) You cannot master a practice-- or anything-- the first time. Try again. And try again. And try again. It will come.....And should you realize part way through your practice that this is no longer for you...move on. YOU ARE NOT WHO YOU WERE, EVEN A MOMENT BEFORE. And do not fret...It will come again.

6.) To love...is enough.

Happy New Year, everyone.

I love you.

~ Genevieve

And as for 2011: welcome, whatever you are. :)

I feel an adventure stirring. And I am ready.

...Let us begin. :)

No one else to talk to...

I really have no one else I can speak to about this. Any of this. Any of me.

So here I am again.

I should be sleeping-- God knows I'll need it, but...here I am again.

I feel like screaming. And sobbing.

Monsoon season is here again.

But that's not why I'm crying. I have been crying for weeks.

And you are not here for me to talk to.

My bed is empty. I feel a pulling, but I am so lost. I no longer feel I know my friends. They have moved on without me, and I from them I guess.

So it seems...and now, so much change and chaos in me. So many, many things I need to speak of-- advice for. Or just a hug.

I would like a hug now.

But nothing. And no one.

And there are so many things I just 'cannot' talk about. I'm 'not supposed to' talk about with you.

And my bed is empty.

And my arms are...empty.

And...the phone does not ring.

And I dance.

But I am no dancer, now, it seems.

And I put anything I can find in my mouth to keep myself from screaming. To keep myself from weeping.

Sometimes it even helps.

And my arms are empty. And my bed is sad. And I hold myself at night, so as not to feel quite so alone.

And what can you do, when you are supposed to be supportive and you are supposed to understand and you are supposed to be forgiving, but there are so many things that are NOT OK. Not alright. Hurt a lot. But...HAVE to be ok.

I'm supposed to be ok. I'm supposed to be fine.

But everywhere around me, people hold one another and make love and laugh and spend time: all around me.

And...I am alone.

And all I know is........the phone begins to stop ringing. And suddenly there is no compassion. Only judgment if I do not understand or say that I am hurting.

Then, I am truly, truly: alone.

The House

Had a thought. Had to write. So, a snippet of something I may continue:

"Danni was doing the dishes. And as she did the dishes, she thought of the house.

It was surrounded by trees, in the middle of mountains, near the edge of a cliff, over looking the ocean. There were creeks nearby, or running water within the walls of the house; little streams snaking from corridor to corridor. It was a house of many windows and hearths—more a part of the outdoors than real construction. But it would be made out of wood and tree and stone and, in some places, even marble. And many other things she could not name. It would have a wonderful kitchen with a fire to cook on, not just a stove, and it would be filled with the smells of warm bread pudding and mulled wine in the winter, and fresh basil and thyme and lemon in the summer, strawberries and mint in the spring, and always the smell of fresh roses.

Danni dreamed of this house. She held onto it in the small parts of her: the corners of her thoughts, her finger bones. She breathed this house. She had no idea where it was, or how she would find it. She dreamed she would build it. She hoped for this house-- an endless architect in her mind. She did not know when it would happen, in the midst of all the rest of the days, or where or why.

But today, she found herself acutely aware that the house, itself, was far less important than the dreaming of it. It was a necessary thought, to hope for it. And live longer in the hoping."

Life vs. the Movies

The difference between so-called 'real life' and the movies can be summed up as follows:

If an act of desperation and love is done in the movies,
...it's incredibly romantic.
If that same act of desperation and love is acted out in 'real' life...
...you are a stalker. Or need mental help. Or to 'grow up.'

Tricky how that is.

...John Cusack had absolutely no business holding up some big-ass boom box,
giving young girls the idea that one day, some guy would desperately seek their love enough to do the same. Nor did he warn us that, should some guy ever actually attempt to do that, the police would probably need to be called.

...And if that same young, impressionable girl SOMEHOW got it into her head to reverse the roles...

Well.

Let's just say, her mother should have taught her:

If you have to go all the way over to his house and stand outside for two hours in the rain,
waiting for him to come down...

...honey...you gotta find yourself a different boy.

Cuz the boy that's worth all that, would not have left in the first place.

...And would have known a hug really can make anything better,
when you're truly in love.


(Either way, standing in the rain for two hours? Will not look good for you).

...Funny how that is.


"Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his heighth be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."

~ William Shakespeare

Poetry and Cake

I found it again.

The quote where I got the title for this blog...don't know much about it, but it stuck in my mind, and made a great deal of sense to me:

"She knows that she is writing bad poetry," said Dr Sanders.
"But clearly poetry - along with cake -
is something to which she feels she is entitled,
something which brings pleasure and which she wants to have."


...'course, I'm more of a pie and tart girl, myself.

A need to write...

Tonight I am dying to say something.

Anything. To anyone. But I find there is no one I want to speak to.

So many words...and I find I have almost none. My mouth will not open.

My mind is on replay.

Every word that hurts repeats and repeats in my head til I hate myself...

I feel like I am back again in summer...walking down a street. My stomach tight.

Trying not to cry. Trying just to breathe. To know I am fine...but...I...

.....My mind is full of numbering:

'Do you know how beautiful you are to me? I love this part and this part and...'

I am full of shame and rage. Bust mostly...just wanting to sleep. To hide in the covers and let it be over. I have been here before. I surrender. Let me feel the pain and then please, God, please just let me go.

Leaving.

Leaving is a funny thing.

It must be done just right. Or it will kill you in the process.

I want poetry to come from my mind or mouth. I want it to be that kind of hurt.

But all I find is ugliness. And silence. And fear. Again.

I hate the knowledge that I COULD just stop it at any moment.

Because I could. Just let it go. I know the process now.

But that would mean giving up, again, a thing I hold most dear...most precious.

...I do not want to make the same mistake again. I am not ready to let it go, so recently returned.

But if there is no chance...none. NONE.

...I had it back for a moment. But...I remember now. In my prayers and my sobbing:

I said -

"Please. I would go through it all again, if I could have t back for just a

moment. Just a day...please..."

....the more fool I.