I don’t know about you, but my dawn doesn’t break.
No, it seeps through the cracks in the quivering night
that can no longer hold all those stars.
Or…
Do fingers of morning peel layers of evening
til nothing remains but the flimsiest fibers
of dark in unreachable corners?
Perhaps…
Bottom to top, deepest midnight is rent,
silently, silken, with pussycat claws
and left in a ball by the stairs.
Either way…
If anything’s broken, it’s darkness, not morning.
The fire of sunrise sets darkness to dancing.
And dancing’s the nightbreak of dawn.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
My eyebrows and other dramatic things...
About two weeks ago, my dance company had a visiting choreographer spend a week setting a piece on us. (For those of you scratching your heads, setting a piece on us means teaching us a dance that usually has already been choreographed). I had just injured my leg in a tragic cirque-du-soleil-style rope incident and was limping around with a large bandage covering the 4-inch long rope burn on the back of my right calf. Great timing, huh? So, we got the rehearsal schedule and to my great surprise I had been given a solo and would have the first rehearsl with Danika. Now, don't get me wrong...it's great to be given a solo and I was pretty excited. But Danika knew I was injured and had even seen me limping around. So I was a little confused as to why she had chosen me as the soloist.
We met for rehearsal that Friday and began the evening discussing the intent of the solo. I learned that I'm supposed to be a sort of 40's Bela Lugosi-type female character. A bit freaky, a bit over the top. "Jan told me that you learn quickly and have a great eye for detail," Danika shared. "But when I met you and saw your eyebrows I knew you'd be perfect for the part. You have very dramatic, expressive eyebrows." !!!! Who knew that I would one day have my eyebrows to thank for a solo? So, in closing I'd like to thank my grandpa, whose thick, arched eyebrows I inherited, and my mom for teaching me how to pluck them into sophisticated, dramatic submission. I wouldn't be where I am today without you both. Thank you.
***
In other unusual news, Colorado was humid on Friday. I was not at all pleased with this turn of events. Nor was my hair. But a light brown bucket hat sprinkled with skull-and-crossbones and a teal cotton batik tie made in Malaysia (like me!) redeemed the evening at Alli D's hat and tie bday party! Very dramatic if you ask me...
We met for rehearsal that Friday and began the evening discussing the intent of the solo. I learned that I'm supposed to be a sort of 40's Bela Lugosi-type female character. A bit freaky, a bit over the top. "Jan told me that you learn quickly and have a great eye for detail," Danika shared. "But when I met you and saw your eyebrows I knew you'd be perfect for the part. You have very dramatic, expressive eyebrows." !!!! Who knew that I would one day have my eyebrows to thank for a solo? So, in closing I'd like to thank my grandpa, whose thick, arched eyebrows I inherited, and my mom for teaching me how to pluck them into sophisticated, dramatic submission. I wouldn't be where I am today without you both. Thank you.
***
In other unusual news, Colorado was humid on Friday. I was not at all pleased with this turn of events. Nor was my hair. But a light brown bucket hat sprinkled with skull-and-crossbones and a teal cotton batik tie made in Malaysia (like me!) redeemed the evening at Alli D's hat and tie bday party! Very dramatic if you ask me...
Monday, June 11, 2007
How sweet fresh sheets feel...
...after a week of camping. Even if it is a week in Yosemite National
Park, one of the most gorgeous places on Earth. Breathe in deep--the
smell of fresh laundry is even stronger when you've smelled like
campfire all week!
Park, one of the most gorgeous places on Earth. Breathe in deep--the
smell of fresh laundry is even stronger when you've smelled like
campfire all week!
I'll have photos posted soon. Keep checking back...I took over 600. I
am officially obsessed.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Southern Lovin'
Click on the picture to view more pics from Laura and Casey's wedding in Charleston, SC, over Memorial Day weekend. It was awesome! And I was thrilled with my new Nikor 50mm 1.8 lens...I used it and only it all weekend! Yay for happy investments! I'd highly recommend it. I'm taking it with me to Yosemite next week so hopefully I will be as happy in the great outdoors!
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The dark side of powder
Yep, that's me. I was "that girl," the one on the injury toboggan. On the way down I kept pushing the yellow tarp off my face and lifting my head to look around, just so people would know I wasn't, y'know, paralyzed or dead or something horrible. I wanted to yell, "Just a shoulder injury, people, just a shoulder. Looks much worse than it is." More pics to come of my adventurous trip on my flickr account
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Why I love city neighborhoods
Diedrich's is a neighborhood coffee shop on the corner of Downing and 9th in downtown Denver. It's exactly what a local java haunt should be: nestled among old, subdivided houses, it wraps around the corner of the block, surrounded by wrought iron tables and chairs at which Merrell-clad Denverites and their de rigeur dogs slurp large espressos and pant, respectively. The locals have turned out full force this crisp Sunday morning and the place is buzzing (pun intended).
I am a stranger in this mess of neighbors and, new to this part of Denver, I am all eyes and ears. I am not disappointed.
Although at first it appeared that I was checked out rather enthusiastically by a table of young guys as I approached, Paul's MacBook and paperback tucked under my arm, I quickly realize that this must be a gay part of town. Glancing around, I count about five women total in the place, two of whom are old, roll-out-of-bed ratty and very obviously regulars.
After ordering my mocha with soy, I plop down at small table in the center of the place, facing a wall of windows--the perfect people-watching post. Men in suits (Jehovahs' Witnesses, perhaps?), joggers and plenty of young, trendy lads walk by. The early Spring has the city outside in droves, enjoying what may be only a temporary respite from a particularly snowy winter.
On the small table adjacent to mine sits an abandoned Denver Post in disarray. I flip through the Sunday magazine, learning about the fascinating love swaps of the rich and bored, before turning to my borrowed book, Bill Bryson's Neither Here Nor There, a side-splitting account of a middle-aged man's travels around Europe. I'm not sure if I should read this in public, certain that I will laugh, perhaps snort, out loud, but decide to throw caution to the wind. It's a good choice. I have read this book three or four times already and will probably read it half a dozen more times in my lifetime. The newspaper sits, lonely, off to my right.
All of a sudden, the pierced older man from behind me approaches the paper and begins rifling through the sections. Turns out he is searching with remarkable focus for dog food coupons. He doesn't smile, ask or even nod. Although I didn't buy the paper, I feel a sense of ownership (it's at MY table!) and am slightly miffed that my presence is neither acknowleged nor my consent sought. How does he know that I didn't buy that paper? My silence must mean that it's alright. Slight annoyance fades to mild amusement as he finds multiple coupons, tears them out and returns to his seat.
A few minutes later, another older man pops up at my side, eyeing the paper. He scoops it up--all except the Sunday magazine, I note--and swoops it away, without so much as a questioning glance. I make a mental note: be in physical contact at all times with a newspaper if you don't want people to treat it as community property. I wonder what would have happened if I had protested. Every scenario I imagine always ends up the same: they somehow find out that I work for a ministry and accuse me of hatred and intolerance for not openly sharing my paper, that somehow claiming something as my own makes me a bigoted gay-hater. I realize that I am always the tiniest bit uncomfortable when surrounded by large groups of homosexuals, afraid that somehow I will be found out and persecuted for choosing heterosexuality and Jesus. It's a strange realization. As a dancer, I've had many gay friends, but they've usually been the minority. Here, the tables are turned. I'm not sure I like this newly discovered aspect of my character; at the same time I know that I'm being ridiculous and melodramatic.
Newspaper-swiping aside, I am charmed by this little place, with its bright jazz music, toasty-pastry smells, and the whirr and shoosh of the coffee drinks being made behind the counter. I could live around here, I think. I would walk here every weekend, Saturday mornings perhaps, and get to know the old man behind the counter in the pageboy cap (currently not behind the counter but outside socializing and furiously dragging on a cigarette). He called me dearie when he handed over my coffee; he would know my name for sure if I lived nearby. I imagine a new scenario: entering to a chorus of hellos (well, friendly nods, at least) from the locals, chatting and laughing with new friends and having civilized, rational conversations about the Bible and what it says about homosexuality. It's a nice thought, anyway.
So here I sit, banging away on this borrowed computer, surrounded by gay men who rifle unapolagetically through the newspaper that could be mine without so much as a nod or a smile. My mocha is rich and hot, the sun is shining and Bill Bryson's book is as funny as the first time I read it. I heart the city.
I am a stranger in this mess of neighbors and, new to this part of Denver, I am all eyes and ears. I am not disappointed.
Although at first it appeared that I was checked out rather enthusiastically by a table of young guys as I approached, Paul's MacBook and paperback tucked under my arm, I quickly realize that this must be a gay part of town. Glancing around, I count about five women total in the place, two of whom are old, roll-out-of-bed ratty and very obviously regulars.
After ordering my mocha with soy, I plop down at small table in the center of the place, facing a wall of windows--the perfect people-watching post. Men in suits (Jehovahs' Witnesses, perhaps?), joggers and plenty of young, trendy lads walk by. The early Spring has the city outside in droves, enjoying what may be only a temporary respite from a particularly snowy winter.
On the small table adjacent to mine sits an abandoned Denver Post in disarray. I flip through the Sunday magazine, learning about the fascinating love swaps of the rich and bored, before turning to my borrowed book, Bill Bryson's Neither Here Nor There, a side-splitting account of a middle-aged man's travels around Europe. I'm not sure if I should read this in public, certain that I will laugh, perhaps snort, out loud, but decide to throw caution to the wind. It's a good choice. I have read this book three or four times already and will probably read it half a dozen more times in my lifetime. The newspaper sits, lonely, off to my right.
All of a sudden, the pierced older man from behind me approaches the paper and begins rifling through the sections. Turns out he is searching with remarkable focus for dog food coupons. He doesn't smile, ask or even nod. Although I didn't buy the paper, I feel a sense of ownership (it's at MY table!) and am slightly miffed that my presence is neither acknowleged nor my consent sought. How does he know that I didn't buy that paper? My silence must mean that it's alright. Slight annoyance fades to mild amusement as he finds multiple coupons, tears them out and returns to his seat.
A few minutes later, another older man pops up at my side, eyeing the paper. He scoops it up--all except the Sunday magazine, I note--and swoops it away, without so much as a questioning glance. I make a mental note: be in physical contact at all times with a newspaper if you don't want people to treat it as community property. I wonder what would have happened if I had protested. Every scenario I imagine always ends up the same: they somehow find out that I work for a ministry and accuse me of hatred and intolerance for not openly sharing my paper, that somehow claiming something as my own makes me a bigoted gay-hater. I realize that I am always the tiniest bit uncomfortable when surrounded by large groups of homosexuals, afraid that somehow I will be found out and persecuted for choosing heterosexuality and Jesus. It's a strange realization. As a dancer, I've had many gay friends, but they've usually been the minority. Here, the tables are turned. I'm not sure I like this newly discovered aspect of my character; at the same time I know that I'm being ridiculous and melodramatic.
Newspaper-swiping aside, I am charmed by this little place, with its bright jazz music, toasty-pastry smells, and the whirr and shoosh of the coffee drinks being made behind the counter. I could live around here, I think. I would walk here every weekend, Saturday mornings perhaps, and get to know the old man behind the counter in the pageboy cap (currently not behind the counter but outside socializing and furiously dragging on a cigarette). He called me dearie when he handed over my coffee; he would know my name for sure if I lived nearby. I imagine a new scenario: entering to a chorus of hellos (well, friendly nods, at least) from the locals, chatting and laughing with new friends and having civilized, rational conversations about the Bible and what it says about homosexuality. It's a nice thought, anyway.
So here I sit, banging away on this borrowed computer, surrounded by gay men who rifle unapolagetically through the newspaper that could be mine without so much as a nod or a smile. My mocha is rich and hot, the sun is shining and Bill Bryson's book is as funny as the first time I read it. I heart the city.
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