Friday, July 15, 2011

Things I forgot to tell you

Quitting smokes gave me my voice back. When I am alone I sing. All the time. When I am not healthy I forget about music and then when I remember it flows back through me like an alignment. This is something I've understood privately since I was a child, that sound in certain waves make energy that wails and rolls and moves invisible boulders. It changes my breathing, my heartbeat, core muscles and throat. So I know there is a fix and that it is simple and moving. That I have this cure any time I want it.

And still, I forget. And sometimes even when I remember the cure I hold out for more wallowing.

Any moment I might make a gorgeous dress of the curtains. If I come at you on a spiral staircase always check my hands for roughness.

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Once in Georgetown a man approached to tell me I was a really good dancer.
He seemed more intent of making sure I knew he knew that than anything else, so I'm inclined to believe the truth of it. I mean. Right? You could have seen it too had you been looking.

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I think I was once a belly dancer in a previous life.

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Music is a language I can't speak but understand.

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