I remember you

I remember the warmth of your palm and the coolness of your fingers,
the hot and cold of your hand in mine.
I can picture, still, how you looked away into the night, looked away from me,
Eyes on the dark sea, the rolling waves, the back and forth pull, the nothingness
and how you seemed to see Fear in the pitch black.
The wind in your hair, that look in your eyes
and how you supressed it, and turned to me with a warm smile.
I remember your laughter, of course I do,
but I can't forget its uncertainty -
your pauses, your silences, your forced smiles.
I remember your quiet singing of some song I've forgotten the name of, some tune that rings in my ears even now.
I remember your silhouette, your profile, your eyes never meeting mine. Your light steps, your soft footprints that never led towards me.

What I don't remember are the stars, the lights, the city, the beach, the swirl of the sand around us. Not the sound of the waves or people's footsteps or the distant cars on the main road.
Not the colour of your eyes, the arch of your brows or whether or not you had freckles. Not the feel of your lips on my lips, on my cheek, my forehead. Not the warmth of your arms around me, not how you fit into my embrace.

Just the emptiness your presence left, your distracted attention and the distance between your heart and mine.

_

Sometimes I inhale deeply, deliberately, shakily
and exhale -
with the same amount of effort.

as if to remember when you taught me how to smoke in the carpark behind my house.

If I concentrate hard enough,
I can still hear the echo of your voice,
teaching me how to hold my cigarette.
"Delicately" you said, "casually"
like the way your palm shadowed the back of my hand -
almost touching -
and how your fingers lightly grazed mine.

If I blink fast enough, I can still picture the shadows cast across your face
each time the shitty fluroescent light flickered,
drawing your eyes upward,
dividing your attention.
I'd held my breath each time in those split seconds,
until your eyes were back on my eyes -
my watering eyes,
reddened by the smoke, teary from my spluttering and choking.

I'd burnt myself with your cheap bic lighter,
the blue plastic had melted a bit.
If I run a finger over my thumb, where the burn had been,
I recall the heat, the sting of the burn
and then, the gentle warmth of the flame on that cold night.

I can still taste, in the back of my throat,
the warm smoke and its bitterness.
I can taste the tobacco on my lips and
the satisfaction of my rebellion on the tip of my tongue.

_

Adage

Get ready.

My hands are shaking with nervous apprehension. My eyes are locked onto the back of those blood-red velvet curtains. I’m not sure whether to fear or anticipate the moment when they’d open. It doesn’t matter. With the ease of a practiced hand I bend down and adjust my pointe shoe strap.

“On in 5. We’re up to Trisha’s scene. You ready?”

“You ready?”

It's been a while since I last heard that question.

It was 1977. The summer air was thick and muggy, the heat smouldering and the sun relentless in its pursuit to sear my already freckled skin.

1977 was the year I turned seventeen. It was the year the Beehive opened and we finally got our own national anthem apart from God Save the Queen. A lot of other stuff happened in 1977. July was the month I got an audition from Royal New Zealand Ballet. August was the month I met Mike. I can’t remember how exactly I met Mike, maybe through a friend of a friend or a friend at a party, the details became murky and unimportant. On December the 15^th of 1977, the Contraception, Sterilisation and Abortion bill was passed with much controversy and outrage. Two days after that, I got accepted into Royal New Zealand Ballet. And two weeks after that, on December the 31st, 1977, (sometime in the afternoon to be precise) I had found myself lying on a soft, secluded patch of grass in the Belmont reserve, my hand in Mike’s and his hand grazing suggestively up my thigh.

You can probably guess what happened next.

“You ready?” He had asked me, like there had been an option. Like I had known any better. My reply at that time should’ve been no. I was not ready for the consequences (and there were much more than I ever would’ve imagined) nor the backlash. My not-readiness was sealed by the shameful fact that I was naïve enough to believe Mike when he’d told me no one used condoms and had reassured me his method would work just fine.

The next “You ready?” came almost precisely 3 months after that. On a chilly afternoon at the end of March, I found myself standing uncomfortably outside a dingy clinic in Auckland. It was dimly lit and all the girls who were in the waiting room looked either sullen or on the verge of tears. I’d felt more near the latter.

Mike had not come with me. He had not bothered to call and check up on me after I told him the news. Later when I bumped into him he said it was because he didn’t have two dollars to make the call. Just like how he didn’t have two dollars to buy a condom I guess.

That clinic had been one of the only ones open in New Zealand at that time. Looking back now, I truly admire my seventeen year old self’s bravery at stepping into that sort of place on my own. It was the autumn of 1978 for god’s sake. Abortions were still frightful, frightful things. In fact, the very notion of it had chilled me to the bone at that time.

The nurse there tried to be nice. She’d given me a tight smile and a tentative, “You ready?”.  She asked me that question just like Mike did. Like I had a choice. Like I knew any better. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the emotional ramifications that followed.

As I laid back onto the sterile, linen-clad operation table, blinded by a halo of cheap fluorescent light, I had never felt so scared or furious or indignant. For the first time the reality of what I was about to do hit me, that I was truly going to end a life – something living, breathing and a part of me. My baby. I had never given abortion much thought before that summer. I’d felt that if you were stupid enough to land yourself pregnant then you might as well have the intelligence to take responsibility for your actions the right way. And yet here I was, stupid, stupid me, going against my very own morals. I had thought about it, honestly I had. For the longest time I had considered keeping her. I’d call her Charlotte. She would be a darling little girl with crinkly blue eyes like Mike’s and they would squeeze up when she giggled. She would have my light brown hair and my father’s nose.

However, even during that period of inner turmoil, every time I closed my eyes it wasn’t Charlotte I saw. Despite the shameful dilemma I was faced with in reality, my dreams were still plagued full of pirouettes and deboulés, jumps and turns and twists and a shadowy figure performing a Grande adage with such fluidity and grace that I would often wake up with tears prickling my eyes from the terrible beauty of what I had seen. I had realised then that dancing was never just a dream or an ambition for me, but a certainty and a necessity. There had been no other option for me.

“Rachel. You ready? You’re on.”

I draw a deep breath. I think of the beautiful Grande adage I dreamt of last night. I press a hand to my belly, silently wondering.

“Rachel.”

I look up. His eyes were as warm and grey as they had been last night, crinkly and smiling. He held my hand, his ring grazing my pinkie.

“Hey baby you’ll be fine. It’s your last show. I know you’re ready for this.”

As I walk on stage I think about the beautiful daughter I will have in the future. As I look across the theatre, a hundred thousand faces look back. Reality sinks in. The blood-red velvet lies behind me, a backdrop of vivid scarlet silhouetting my white leotard.

As I poise myself for the beginning of my final Adage, I ask myself.

You ready?

I draw a deep breath.

I am.

He often thought about her, his first love.
He had been 12 the year he met her. She had been 18 or 19... or so he'd guessed. Obviously, he had not been her first love. Or any love. He was sure she never thought about him.

She was the daughter of his father's colleage, and he'd first met her on a company field trip he'd been dragged him along to. He hadn't really noticed her at first, girls had still been a mystery to him at the time anyway. She wasn't especially pretty, nor was she friendly. If he really had to describe his first impression of her, he'd say she'd looked bored and sullen, gloomy, or even pissed off.

Maybe that's why he'd always remember the first time he saw her smile. Or maybe it had been significant because he'd been the catalyst for that smile.

He couldn't remember what he'd said, now, but he'd made some stupid 12 year old remark - the kind that teachers couldn't stand, the attention seeking, smart mouthed kid type of comment. (Of course, this is all in retrospect). He had thought himself clever and quickwitted at the time and had been craving any sort of response - laughter, or, his favourite, exasperation.
Sure enough, he got the attention he'd wanted: a few chuckles, someone ruffling his hair, a comment about how cheeky but clever he was and, as always, his father's half amsued, half annoyed expression. But what he had not expected, was her reaction.

She had pressed her lips together, as if determined that this silly comment would not amuse her. No, she would not smile, she would continue to seem unhappy, continue letting what was originally bothering her to eat at her. But she was an optimist by nature, he later learnt. When she could not supress her amusement any longer, she looked down at her hands, and a reluctant smile spread across her face. She shook her head a little and it was almost as if she was laughing at herself, thinking herself silly for letting this little kid's smart mouth cheer her up. But it was too late, she'd been caught off guard, and was unable to stop herself from smiling.

He'd been dumbstruck by that smile. He'd watched her, frozen in shock, staring at that unexpected smile. And suddenly, she'd looked up at him, and grinned at him as if they were conspirators. He'd turned away immediately, red with embarrassment, his heart pounding. He'd later concluded that the gut wrenching feeling he'd experienced must be what love was like.

Naturally, he'd spent the rest of the day determinedly looking away from her.

_

Fascination

Have you ever wondered where she is? What she's doing now?
It's nothing, really.
Just a girl whose name you didn't know but whose front gate you'd always give a second glance when you walked past. Just a girl who'd catch your eye and smile at you but whom you'd never plucked up the courage to introduce yourself to.
A girl from when you were too young to understand love and only knew fascination. The swish of her straight black hair and the way her eyes disappeared when she laughed had made you crash your bike on more than one occasion.

Do you ever think about the times you rode past her house and tried to peer over her fence? Do you remember the sun beating down on your back, the dusty roads and the stillness of the afternoon?

_

love story

I can see it now, the love story that will unfold. He's a country boy, new to the big city.

He works hard, he knows only work.

He sits down. He sits next to her.

She doesn't see him, although to be fair he doesn't see her either. He's too concentrated on those tiny foreign words moving around on the screen, trying to make sense of it all. He's learnt this, he knows this, he can do this.

She doesn't notice his determination or his steady hand or his fierce gaze. She may have noticed his board shoulders, but they were shoulders clothed in something that made her look away. She didn't notice him.

He noticed her. Not at first, but during a momentary lapse in his concentration his eyes wondered over. She was sitting there poised and perfect, eyes down staring blankly at the screen. She didn't know this. What was this? Did she learn this? Did they even teach them this? She was contemplating on going home and having a little cry. Life was unfair.

He noticed her frustration. He may have also noticed the vanilla in her hair and the softness in her pout and he may have also thought her quite pretty. But she was clothed in something that made him look away. There was no point in noticing her. He needed to do work.

She needed another coffee. She wasn't a spoilt girl, but she was new to this feeling of failure.

She worked hard, she knew how to work hard.

She looked out the window. It was raining tiny raindrops. She felt like taking a walk in the rain.

He looked out the window. It was raining again. He needed to get away from this goddamn rain.

She stood up.

He stood up.

For a split second, their eyes met.

Her eyes grazed across his board shoulders and focused unsteadily on his face. God why did he look so angry? She rather liked that angry-ness though. He looked fierce. She liked that.

His eyes hovered on her pout and that tiny little frown on her face. He wanted to look away from her pout but he couldn't. She looked sad. He didn't like that.

She smiled awkwardly and quickly walked out. Maybe there was a tinge of red feathering over her cheeks. Maybe it was just a bit warm in here.

He grinned, chuckling under his breath at such silly thoughts. Maybe it was a bit warm in here, but it didn't matter to either of them.

He followed her out, still laughing at his own folly. She was just a random stranger. But still, he felt like  he could smell the vanilla from her hair lingering faintly in the air.

She stood outside, cursing at her own foolishness. It was too warm in there, that's all. He was just a random stranger.

But still, she couldn't help letting out a little sigh. She liked that stranger. Maybe they'll meet again.

but you didn't see this

hey, did you see that?
did you see how beautiful it was?
did you see how the stars glowed and the wind danced
and my hair danced and your smile danced
and our laughter entwined with the soft backdrop of splashes
waves hitting the shore
hand holding my hand
your thumb grazing my cheek and you had that look in your eyes and I had it in mine

did you see that? could you see that?

or did you let that beauty pass

hey, have you seen this?

sometimes when you look at a beautiful view it hurts, because
you want to share it with someone else
you want to just take someone's hand and go
"hey, hey have you seen this?
have you seen how beautiful this is?
have you seen the stars and the sky in the night
and the moon and the breeze in your hair
and the lights and my hand in your hand
and the city and your hand in mine
?

can you see how beautiful this is?"

oh hello there

WHO ARE WE?

WE ARE LIKE THE WIND THAT SCREAMS
THE SUN THAT BURNS
THE FREAK OF NATURE HAILSTONES THAT SMASH AGAINST YOUR SKULL

WE ARE ANGRY
WE ARE UNPRECEDENTED
WE ARE AMAZING



WE ARE UNICORNS
BOW DOWN TO OUR MIGHT