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rocketqueen1976 — Fri, 02 Feb 2007 06:49:45 GMT

There was a time when I kept a journal. I have proof of this fact- the evidence lines several bookshelves. These journals are filled with drunken musings on bearded Vietnam vets drinking Bud Light on Lingerie Night down at Shorty’s in Martinez while their wives lay dying in hospice of cancer. The page is almost wet with his tears and the last riffs of Freebird on the Jukebox, and there is no irony. I had friends in low places, and I can tell you, there’s a bad moon on the rise, as well as a bathroom on the right. I have nights of illegible scribbling, carving the pen tip deep against the subsequent pages. There are nights of jealousy, wondering who he’s with. There are nights of why-doesn’t-he-love-me, and why-did-I-leave-him. There are my mental images of co-workers as giant assholes- huge, pink, gaping, puckered, pimpled-butt cheeked, hemorrhoidal assholes. If we go further back, there were those all-nighters at the only smoking-permitted diner in Concord. The leather-jacket and eyeliner kids drifted into and away from my booth as the night’s twelve hours progressed. Grilled cheese sandwich crumbs and spent creamers littered the table. I was afraid of my thoughts, so I my journal heard only pronouns, adjectives and gerunds- so many fucking gerunds. The, and, is, was, of, to- these were too literal for me. Sometimes I sat and wept. There was that ex-boyfriend who died, and I couldn’t get the feelings out. I smoked too much. My parents thought I was a stinky, dirty, messy, freakish black sheep, and had lately discovered that same high-nosed, disdainful face I thought only snobby cheerleaders could perfect. I wanted to find art, but it had apparently skipped town, or thought it was too good for the likes of me. Beauty took the same course. I was beginning to panic- like the time I turned my car around on a freeway onramp. Straight-up, illegal U-turn into oncoming traffic. I hated rebellious teens with ironic “Support Desert Storm” t-shirts. I hated the punks who hated any band who got onto a major label, let alone the fans who listened to them. I hated lipstick. I hated “pretty” and “cute”. I hated this capitalist society that forces women to conform and buy into the hygienic preferences of male-chauvinistic men who run the cosmetics industry, based on their preference for clean-shaven, vanilla-smelling, trim and tanned, spunky and compliant little girls. And I was pushing my boyfriend away, lost in my own sadness. I used to ask him, “Sal, why don’t you pay attention when I’m crying?” He said, “Well, I try to. But you’re ALWAYS crying.” I don’t know what happened to me, or when. Now I bellydance. I own seven different shades of lipstick, at least twenty different eyeshadows. I bronze my skin with Mac bronzer before a gig, or a photo shoot. And I make sure to moisturize, moisturize, moisturize. I sit at home and sew little Afghan coins onto Target bras. I obsess all day long about the next skirt I’m going to make, whether it should be long or short, and if I’ll do shoes or go barefoot. I think of how a bustle might look nice for the next gig. I practice belly rolls in the car. I do glute squeezes in bed, and engage my obliques when I feel they might be getting weak. I hear a song, and I think about whether a choreography might require dynamic arms, or dramatic staging, or a more organic level-change throughout the group. Or, is it a group piece at all- maybe it cries out for a solo? I have amazing friends- scientists, anthropology students, people who travel the world finding jewelry, knowledge, wisdom and kindness. People I would have never known if it weren’t for this dance. They are goofy, anal, tough, nasty, hootchie-licious and beautiful. The other night, Sal and I were playing pool at a bar. The Cure came on and I started dancing between shots, dancing and jumping around my pool cue. I asked him, “Sal, why don’t you pay attention when I’m dancing?” He said, “Well, I try to. But you’re ALWAYS dancing.” Ten years. From crying to dancing.

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