(no subject)
i once knew a girl who'd spend the afternoon wiggling her toes high up in the air, her back to the floor, her head in a trance as she imagined patterns in the ceiling's popcorn paint. that is, until her toes got to itchin' and her trance took on a melody and it was high time she got to dancin'. once deemed "star twirler" of a children's ballet class, the child had some potential. her arms weren't particularly long or graceful, she had about as much balance as a wobbling dradle, but she had small feet with high arches and a fire in her heart that found its sustaining fuel as she let her limbs squeam and shake. her habit blessed her by forcing her lungs to become strong and supple, assisting her heart in maintaining a well oxidized blaze.
not vulnerable to extinguishers, but still capable of letting her own energy lead her to embers. her mornings were her hibernation hours. locked up, lost in, left in, her tank of terror and suspicion: her little toe-head. the silence broke her heart like an opera damsel's shrill lament cracks the unsuspecting champagne glass. her own worst critic, and far too young to know enough pop psychology to intellectually dispel her inner grievances with bubble gum wisdoms. There would be no "love yourself before your judge yourself" for this ballerina. even though she didn't fall or even fret upon the stage of the nutcracker, the tormenting rats managed to follow her home, where they would fall in seizing droves from the waterfalls tragically staining her face with stage-mascara. she cried for the patriarchal domination of her life (though never in so many words), as well as the careless and greedy destruction of the world's rainforests. she cried for her own sorry self, in which she felt no love existed, whether for the purpose of get or give, she just couldn't locate the emancipating stuff.
but like a 5 dollar an hour sooth-sayer, or an amateur novelist, her life never failed to provide her the glimmer of prospect in the form of optimistic forshadowing:
3 years old she drops a fork from her high chair, and exclaims "Jesus!"
"Where did you hear that word?" the astonished father asks his secularly raised daughter.
"God," she replies.
"When do you talk to God?"
"Tuesdays and Thursdays."
Through the quiet and the fear divine intervention apparently appears. And so the grateful dancing pixie girl
lives enraptured ever after.
not vulnerable to extinguishers, but still capable of letting her own energy lead her to embers. her mornings were her hibernation hours. locked up, lost in, left in, her tank of terror and suspicion: her little toe-head. the silence broke her heart like an opera damsel's shrill lament cracks the unsuspecting champagne glass. her own worst critic, and far too young to know enough pop psychology to intellectually dispel her inner grievances with bubble gum wisdoms. There would be no "love yourself before your judge yourself" for this ballerina. even though she didn't fall or even fret upon the stage of the nutcracker, the tormenting rats managed to follow her home, where they would fall in seizing droves from the waterfalls tragically staining her face with stage-mascara. she cried for the patriarchal domination of her life (though never in so many words), as well as the careless and greedy destruction of the world's rainforests. she cried for her own sorry self, in which she felt no love existed, whether for the purpose of get or give, she just couldn't locate the emancipating stuff.
but like a 5 dollar an hour sooth-sayer, or an amateur novelist, her life never failed to provide her the glimmer of prospect in the form of optimistic forshadowing:
3 years old she drops a fork from her high chair, and exclaims "Jesus!"
"Where did you hear that word?" the astonished father asks his secularly raised daughter.
"God," she replies.
"When do you talk to God?"
"Tuesdays and Thursdays."
Through the quiet and the fear divine intervention apparently appears. And so the grateful dancing pixie girl
lives enraptured ever after.