I miss ballet so much. The dance, not the people. And Talara. I guess she’s a person, but a very special one. M- posted a song that took me back. “Le Petit Nicolas” by Gabriel Yared. I closed my eyes to listen. I felt the choreography in my body and saw rain and a pink and purple sunset from the door of my old dance studio. I felt the cold. My body tingled. It flashed from that to the view of darkness from a stage with a black floor, the glow of yellow light from above. I danced in an ivory tutu with a bead on my forehead at the point of a hair piece. In the silence at the end I heard applause and felt warm.
I miss ballet. I miss telling a story with my body. I miss lyrical as well but it’s not as dramatic. Having a place to put all the emotion is a gift. The energy and sadness, the joy and the pain. To shape them into something beautiful, delicate yet empowering…
There were green parrots every day in the summer that would squak for awhile around sunset.
I still have my bloodstained pointe shoes. They were Talara’s. So much driving. So much music. So much beautiful pain.
I love the dance. I hate the people. I’ve never met a ballet person, other than Talara, who got it, who understood what it was like to be me. Ballet’s not cheap and poor people don’t do it. Just the outfit and shoes required for a class are expensive. And there are so many non-dance rules for what you can and can’t do and wear – colors, hair, tights, skirt types and lengths. I can’t process it all. It’s like a cult. And if you don’t get it or do it wrong, it’s like you’ve got Rabies. I’m sorry. I have no money and like pants. But I love the dance.
It’s a dance in which I place my body on purpose.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010