I Like Pie

To be without ambition isn't easy and might not even be entirely possible, but it's something one can come close to or at least keep in mind. It is freeing to act with detachment and to do without grand expectations. Then everything is a surprise, nothing a disappointment. Sometimes one purposefully chooses to act this way and, at other times, we are forced into our holy state. These are the lessons I've been learning of late. They are not easy lessons. They are humbling.

Sometimes I feel as if I've been eating a little too much humble pie, but I know it is good so I continue to eat. It is a healing pie. It is full of slow-baked fruit and warm sugars.

Too often ambition gets in the way of real achievement, the kind that really nourishes. I will never be a great ballerina, and it feels good to know this. It allows me to be a better dancer and perhaps a better person.

Now for poetry. This pie is saltier than it is sweet, but I am learning. I am starting over with a new recipe.

Top 100 Poetry Blogs

According to L. Fabry of Online University Reviews.

Toot toot

My poem "Poi" was recently published in the anthology Hunger and Thirst: Food Literature (City Works Press, 2008). I should have mentioned this sooner, but I haven't been spending too much time on the old blog.

Be sure to also check out Cheryl Klein's story, "The Rocky Bottom of the Sea." There's plenty more included in this book (by Kim Addonizio, Marilyn Chin, Barbara Kingsolver and Li-Young Lee, to name a few) to pique your thirst, entice your taste buds and nourish your intellect.

Today's Wish

When the earth drags you down,
spend the day dozing in cool grass,
the warm sun shining over you.

Not Heaven, but Love

A group of us writers were in a place, very Japanese, charcoal-colored wood all around. We were there to read from a play, an ancient masterwork. Everyone opened their books, but I didn’t have one. Another woman was trying to help me, first showing me the passage we were starting to read from in her copy, then showing me which book it was. Not the little book I had picked up, but the bigger version. She told me to get it. So I went into another room and there was an elderly Japanese woman there. I showed her the little book and told her I needed the big one. There was a wall of shelving full of large, wide editions with gold or silver lettering on the spines. She brought down the volume with the title HEAVEN on its spine. I was so glad I finally had it, but I realized it was the wrong part of the work. The work was in four parts, four volumes. I looked at the spines and told her the volume I needed was the one titled LOVE. She understood and brought it to me. I followed her into a different room. There was a beautiful swinging half door like in a western saloon, but it was very rustic and Japanese looking. Black wood with gold-painted engraving. I followed her into a workshop where she had been painting a broom. The portion she had already been working on was the bottom straw area of the broom. She had been painting this white and blue. She began applying more blue, painting a V shape at the top of the broom straw, then dappling the bottom which was mostly white with blue smears and specks. I stood there admiring her work and realized she was an artisan. Then she began to package some food for me in a plastic bag. It took her a long time to get the plastic bag just right. During this time I was staring at her trying to recognize her. She called me over and held the handles out toward me with both hands. The hole was just large enough for me to put my hand through. To do so I had to bend down because she was so tiny. When I did this she held the plastic bag around my wrist for just a moment longer than necessary. When I stood straight again there was a softness in her face and I realized it was Meme. I think I said, “Thank you, Meme.” She said, “You have a gray hair.” I smiled and knew for certain that it was her because she had noticed this. I bent down and whispered in her ear like it was a secret, “I know, I have a lot of gray hair now, so I need to color it.” She said it didn’t look like I had that many and I told her just under a layer of dark hair, I had lots of gray. I was so happy to be with her. Love and blessings emanated from her, but there was also a tinge of sadness in her face. Then I awoke.

Three Years Later

I went back to The Man With The Cane. But before I went back to him, I went to The Beautiful Woman With Slavic Eyes.

Now this could be the beginning of a short story by Chekhov (minus the initial-caps), but sadly I'm not a good short story writer and won't even attempt to pull it off past two sentences.

I've been back at ballet for almost four months (just beginning to lose track of time now), going from one class a week to two, studying mostly with The Beautiful Woman With Slavic Eyes. I recently got sick and missed almost two weeks of classes, so last Saturday I decided I had to take a make-up class. I went to the usual studio, but wasn't able to get into a class there (long story), so I went home resigning myself to not taking a class that day, until...

I remembered The Man With The Cane who teaches just two blocks away from where I live. Lo and behold, there was an advanced class that afternoon. So I mustered up the courage, assuring myself that I'm in better shape now than when I first went to him.

The class kicked my ass, but I managed. The Man With The Cane watched me again with hawk eyes and gave me lots of instruction. Here's what I learned:

• The height and staying power of a jump is dependent on the quickness of the plié and the straightening of the knee.
• When the chin is held up as if you were "the high priestess," you expend more energy than you need to. The facial expression, eyes and head should look natural.
• When you stretch the leg to the side with heel in hand, the supporting side should remain straight with hips squared-off.
• When the leg is held in développé, don't let it suddenly drop when fatigue sets in; a controlled descent will help to build the strength needed to hold the leg up that high.
• The supporting leg is turning in during fouettés.
• There is too much tension in the shoulders, arms and head; all need to be more natural and fluid.

When one is concentrating as hard as all that, it's difficult to remain relaxed and fluid. One of the dancers in the class made everything she did--including holding her leg up at an 80-degree angle--look effortless, and for this she deserves to be called a professional. At the studio where The Beautiful Woman With Slavic Eyes teaches, a student told me The Man With The Cane was "crazy" and "mean." Perhaps it appeals to my masochistic side, but I like receiving instruction, especially from teachers. The only "problem" is that he makes his students work hard. If you want to set your own pace, it's not the right class. It certainly wasn't for me when I first went. Now, I think once a week of mortification might be good.

The beating heart bangs out

thank you thank you.

The detoxifying liver says
namaste xie xie.
The bowels shout
vive la France!
The skin chimes
top o'the morning to ya.
The ass says
up, up and away.
The muscles ask
does it turn you on?
The lungs coax
ahhh, deeper my love.

Upcoming Reading

The Literati Cocktail/Rhapsodomancy Sampler
at the 7th Annual West Hollywood Book Fair
featuring poets

Eloise Klein Healy

liz gonzález

Jamie Asaye FitzGerald

Robert Montoya

September 28, 2008
The Robertson Coffee House Stage
11:30am sharp

West Hollywood Park: 647 N. San Vicente Blvd.
free admission and parking (at Pacific Design Center)
www.westhollywoodbookfair.org

www.litparlor.com