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Caresst
Friend leaves. Him George. Me sad.
Wednesday. 9.29.04 11:37 pm
watching: my AIM screen
listening to: nothing
mood: sad
What does it mean to be sad?
I know nothing is really wrong, that I’ll be okay, and that inside I really am happy.
But there’s a sorrow. How much place do you give to a sadness? Do you honor it with elegies and testimonies? Or do you just remember quietly and smile? Wistful. Things that could have happened that didn’t and probably weren’t meant to. Things that did that were remarkably special. When someone makes you feel something you haven’t felt in a very long time, reminds you of emotions you carry with you but rarely touch, how do you say goodbye?

I think you just do. They walk out the door and you know you may or may not see them again. Perhaps you just accept what they’ve given you and don’t press for more. I think that’s what it is.

He made me dance. Literally made me dance. That has become more important to me than I can really express. He reminded me of how much I love to dance for people, how dance and community are so mutually supportive, and just that I love to dance. To move, to have an audience that is pushing me, interacting with me. I love it. I hadn’t felt that pleasure in movement in a very long time. Like much else in my life, I view dance as something to work at, to achieve at, and to be successful with.

When I realized that I truly love to write, I began to know that what I loved was creation. The act of creating, expressing, and finding is thrilling for me. Making something that is beautiful or grotesque, symmetrical or nonsensical, all at once—it excites me to no end. I have to share it. Choreography, I think, will be the same way. My question becomes how can dancing be creative. If I just mimic movements, work my body like a machine, and get stronger, I will have a healthy body, but I will not be happy. When he pushed me to step past my self-consciousness and perform for him, I found courage. Not at first, actually. He had to do it again. He pushed me again. I began a gypsy dance. He stood up with me and swayed as I moved. His brother began to walk around me, clapping as my accompaniment. It was a circle. I was dancing, he was watching, the brother was supporting. For the first time in ages I felt the joy of dancing. If I could feel that every day of my life—I don’t know what would happen. Maybe I should figure out how to incorporate it.

But I can’t do it alone. Perhaps that is my greatest sadness. George is going back to Romania, and now I don’t know who will be that push, that friend. I am sure moments like the one he gave me are not meant to be once in a lifetime moments. I’m sure it will come again. I hope it comes in the form of someone who can stay or that I can go with. Then I will not have to be sad.

Goodbye, George. Thank you so very much. I pray your flight is smooth and safe and that you find goodness the way you give it. Much love.


“From George/Or, My Renaissance”

When you’re in your truest form
It seems a moment snatched from life
Awakened from deadly chloroform
You forget the wings scratched and torn
Threadbare dreams and visions worn
You shed it all in one joy supreme
When you remember your deepest dream
You feel yourself in all your glory
And find the plot within your story
With all the twists it may have taken
The thread remains with resolve unshaken

But you feel it. And that’s all the difference.
No need to connect thought to inference
It just is. And you’re fine. And you know it so well.
And you wish you could make a potion or spell
That could keep you that happy, that great, that YOU
For in that moment you see it, and you know that it’s true.
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