tracing our tracks

IMG_2666

with the chill of an april night in may,

we march out again to float above the river.

365 days dustier, our train tracks seem only to have magnified in magic…

IMG_2683

so too has my aversion to such height-induced adrenaline,

but now we are we, and together we walk free.

clutching your expert hands I tread since-vanquished coals with care as if they still burned.

I follow your flippers, tracing your tracks and placing each velvet slipper on the rail behind yours.

someone else’s mother’s leather floats across the divide and I trail…

IMG_2668

it seems 12 months time has erased my subtle cool completely, and I freeze.

please.

please wake my feet that they may flee in tidy take off,

incite my knees that they may ensure a steady landing,

and oh please, leave my racing mind at peace that it may not tempt curious eyes to seek the water below.

a shaky leap and at last I meet you for the first and five hundredth time…

IMG_2567

we turn to face           a searing sky.

burning hearts pressed together,

now above the train tracks

over the river

we fly.

 

5.24.16. written on a cool tuesday morning, dreaming of the past weekend…week…year…and all of the painted skies to come.

books and brunch in boston

IMG_8608

I have bruises on my body, but spring in my soul, following this warm weekend up north with my favorite human.  M and I brunched and browsed all over Boston, and the sun stayed with us far longer than we’d even hoped.  From Brighton to Brookline to Chinatown, Beacon Hill, Cambridge and back again, we made our way through boro(ugh)s and backstreets until our tired, unscented brains* could explore no more.  We visited some of our very favorites, including Tatte and The Middle Gray, where I scribbled this little ditty into my journal, which I’m going to call Ode to An Arepa…

black and white

and grey all over

where beginning 

meets end and

trains transcend

tea-stained flowers

bloom and bend

sriracha-soaked arepas

poison sinuses

our bodies defend

fight the careful blend

my dearest friend

you challenge my senses

so I guess the contents

in your favorite hot sauce trend.

 

*Have you ever googled “What does a human brain smell like?”  Not recommended.

whirlwind

11055337_10102539865151671_520791094729213468_o

in a whirl of tulle

and white lights

and lace

rosin’d pointes rock away

sticky grid lock

in their place12370988_10102539865236501_2810790328239385870_o

parties move on

from Silberhaus to 

my own

a growing tree stacks its dust

where festive bulbs

once shone

12371125_10102539865176621_6037296968735203367_o

flower petals brown

in dark skips where

they lie

whispering of stale sweets

and waltzes 

gone by

12375198_10102539865281411_6673682486465345044_o

gauzy ghosts of dancers

now wisp in 

their place

flooding the empty theater

with a harrowed

hallow grace

12365944_10102539865286401_8795039994269333286_o

final bits of chalky snow

flake away and off

the stage

a calendar completely cracked

it must be time to turn

the page…

1495148_10102539865141691_4921512784514472937_o

creepy poetry by a sleepy me, photos of FBP dancers by the talented Jacob Hoover.

for more from Mr. Hoover and his ultra cool camera, head on over here.

apollon musagéte

IMG_4643

history, mythology
symbolism wrapped in white
the Youth of Zeus, both god and muse
wheeling in circles toward the light
IMG_4641
artistic divinity, physical symmetry
curator of beauty, movement and word
collector of gesture, youth under pressure
born fresh to a body fore matured

IMG_4644

flexed hands, open hips
collect more space in less time
mice that flinch and toes a-ginch
3 muses scatter a musical rhyme
IMG_4639
Mr. B’s revolving mirrors
simple steps with precise execution
chariots, chains, clocks and trains
final apotheosis: elevated resolution.
– from the mind of Kirsten, channeling Calliope
Apollo choreography by George Balanchine thanks to the George Balanchine Trust©
photos by Melissa Wong.

the tragedy of tsarevna

IMG_4003

IMG_3950IMG_3872

a fire red bird and a golden tree
history performs deja vu anew,
this distant, muffled memory
enchanted princesses peek a weeping eye
crowns peaking like St. Peter’s imperiled imperial
Visilisa Tsarevna’s palace lies in the dark heart of Katchei
Ivan’s affections, bold curiosity exposed
a circle dance, a faithful pledge, a hoard of monsters
the way forbidden love always goes
villainous capture, seized by surprise
a magic feather’s protection
one powerful bird brings eternal sunrise
a brave fight for a subtle paradox
freedom to wed, reign, remain
a sparkly little princess, locked up in a box.

life in motion

IMG_2859

Recently, my days have been a bit freer than I’d like them.

Our first program is beautiful, but small, and my roles rather brief.  Though productive to a fault and never one to complain about free time (hello, homework!), I’ve been fighting to keep this light rehearsal schedule from affecting me emotionally.  I don’t like to admit it, but my relatively dance-less days have been getting me down.

Fortunately, as if sent by the gods of interweb revelations, this blog post made its way to my browser in the peak of last week’s pity party.  One  paragraph and a few sips of chamomile later, something remarkable had happened; Through the shared struggle of someone a thousand miles away, my spirits were lifted.  I felt a strong connection to a dancer whom I’ve never actually met (thanks for that, technology) and the emotional slump we were experiencing together, but apart, suddenly seemed a whole lot more manageable.  Mahallia’s grace, in both words and dancing, reminded me just how strongly the prosperity of my mental health relies on expression through physical movement.  Sometimes I get so wrapped up in ballet’s brain game that I forget to simply enjoy the inherent therapy in motion.

IMG_2744

I found the above quote taped into my new locker at the start of this season.  An excerpt from Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet left behind by an over-thinking dancer of the past, these ten lines felt wholly uniting.  They seem to be speaking directly to us- those who move to live, those completed by their career, those who find themselves making a living which makes them right back.

If ever you catch yourself toiling in the unsolved answers, I invite you to stop.  Stop looking ahead.  Stop searching for solutions.  So curiosity may drive an exciting ambition, but why not experiment with that potent thirst?  Direct it towards the questions themselves, and dedicate some time to examining what it is you’re asking.  Relish in the observance of negative space, of blank pages, and empty hours.  Experience the unraveling.  Live the questions.

End rant.  Happy Monday!

first photo by Michael Collins.