bodies, or, if the instrument is on the ground they draw near it, hovering just above. I haven’t yet put myself in the right proximity to an instrument. I have held a fiddle too far from my body.
The music is soft, then loud. Too loud. I look up at the sky. I had no idea it would be such a noisy concert and it hurts my ears. If I picture dancers now they are completely in crisis. They are violent criminals wearing costumes dyed a deep red. To picture this makes me nervous, as if I will be attacked before I get back to the farm. And of course there is nothing for me to copy down. When I hold a recital the music will be soft, so soft it will be hard to hear it. My talent lies in gentleness, even if I am not a gentle person.
Walking through the streets when the concert is over, the warm air pressing delicately against the night, I feel my future. The person I want to reject me is standing next to a palm.
“Hello,” I call gently.
“What?” the person answers. The shadow of the PALM IS DEEP.
“It’s so warm. And beautiful.”
“It’s always warm here.”
“That’s true. My farm is a bit farther down the road. Would you like to see it?”
This person takes so long to answer I’m afraid nothing will be said. But, finally, “I don’t visit the farms of strangers.”
I breathe out an audible sigh, like I have been taught to do in yoga, but I don’t think this person understands anything like that. This person is gone before I know what’s happened, leaving me completely alone. What I appreciate most about compositions, dance, and the air is what I appreciate about people. To go out and meet them you must go incredibly far.
DELICATELY FEELING
If the air is cold enough I feel something. It might only be on my arm or my hand, but it is there. All last year I wore a brooch pinned to my coat. I was conscious of it. When I walked down the street, I was lifted by the brooch. I was still walking on the ground, but some part of me was floating up, a small part of me.
These days it’s colder and colder and I feel more. My skin is warm where my clothes touch me, and I sit in front of a heater like it’s a fire. I bought a silk robe and it is the most beautiful thing I own. It’s silver with faintly colorful flowers.
In the mornings my students lumber through the snow, trailing their bright mittens and hats, dropping them on the ground. I can see them coming a long way off, these different parts of them. In class I am bored and I talk and talk until my voice is its own separate thing. I don’t know what children like. I have to watch cartoons or movies if I want to understand anything about them.
Last Saturday I saw a play about a war. Next to me sat a man and a woman. I had the feeling they wanted me to share the experience of the play with them. The woman’s hair was braided and looped around her head. She looked expectantly at the stage, and sometimes at me. “Do you like this play?” she whispered. I whispered that though it was violent, I felt some affinity to it.
During intermission I went to the bathroom to reapply my lipstick and then I drank champagne in the lobby. The room was warm with people and I felt connected to them. I looked in their eyes and they looked back at me, sometimes for a long time.
Then the lights flickered, calling us back to the theater. Drunk from the sensations, I found my seat. This time the man was seated closest to me and he nodded at me as I sat down and he tried to hold my gaze. I nodded back, but didn’t look at him for long because the play was starting and I didn’t want to miss anything.
Now I felt an affinity so dearly to the actors that everything inside me was heartbreakingly connected. My experience of the moment heightened, but outside I remained calm.
Toward the end of the play the stage became chaotic, like fat horses were galloping over it. Men knocked each other down and struck each other in the faces and heads. Several women stood on the sidelines,
The music is soft, then loud. Too loud. I look up at the sky. I had no idea it would be such a noisy concert and it hurts my ears. If I picture dancers now they are completely in crisis. They are violent criminals wearing costumes dyed a deep red. To picture this makes me nervous, as if I will be attacked before I get back to the farm. And of course there is nothing for me to copy down. When I hold a recital the music will be soft, so soft it will be hard to hear it. My talent lies in gentleness, even if I am not a gentle person.
Walking through the streets when the concert is over, the warm air pressing delicately against the night, I feel my future. The person I want to reject me is standing next to a palm.
“Hello,” I call gently.
“What?” the person answers. The shadow of the PALM IS DEEP.
“It’s so warm. And beautiful.”
“It’s always warm here.”
“That’s true. My farm is a bit farther down the road. Would you like to see it?”
This person takes so long to answer I’m afraid nothing will be said. But, finally, “I don’t visit the farms of strangers.”
I breathe out an audible sigh, like I have been taught to do in yoga, but I don’t think this person understands anything like that. This person is gone before I know what’s happened, leaving me completely alone. What I appreciate most about compositions, dance, and the air is what I appreciate about people. To go out and meet them you must go incredibly far.
DELICATELY FEELING
If the air is cold enough I feel something. It might only be on my arm or my hand, but it is there. All last year I wore a brooch pinned to my coat. I was conscious of it. When I walked down the street, I was lifted by the brooch. I was still walking on the ground, but some part of me was floating up, a small part of me.
These days it’s colder and colder and I feel more. My skin is warm where my clothes touch me, and I sit in front of a heater like it’s a fire. I bought a silk robe and it is the most beautiful thing I own. It’s silver with faintly colorful flowers.
In the mornings my students lumber through the snow, trailing their bright mittens and hats, dropping them on the ground. I can see them coming a long way off, these different parts of them. In class I am bored and I talk and talk until my voice is its own separate thing. I don’t know what children like. I have to watch cartoons or movies if I want to understand anything about them.
Last Saturday I saw a play about a war. Next to me sat a man and a woman. I had the feeling they wanted me to share the experience of the play with them. The woman’s hair was braided and looped around her head. She looked expectantly at the stage, and sometimes at me. “Do you like this play?” she whispered. I whispered that though it was violent, I felt some affinity to it.
During intermission I went to the bathroom to reapply my lipstick and then I drank champagne in the lobby. The room was warm with people and I felt connected to them. I looked in their eyes and they looked back at me, sometimes for a long time.
Then the lights flickered, calling us back to the theater. Drunk from the sensations, I found my seat. This time the man was seated closest to me and he nodded at me as I sat down and he tried to hold my gaze. I nodded back, but didn’t look at him for long because the play was starting and I didn’t want to miss anything.
Now I felt an affinity so dearly to the actors that everything inside me was heartbreakingly connected. My experience of the moment heightened, but outside I remained calm.
Toward the end of the play the stage became chaotic, like fat horses were galloping over it. Men knocked each other down and struck each other in the faces and heads. Several women stood on the sidelines,
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