Dances with Words

I am so anxious these days that I have begun writing letters to myself. This calms me a little but today, an hour later, I again get butterflies.

I decide to clean my office as it doesn't please me. (I have already done this twice in the past two weeks.) I begin with a cupboard of odds and ends - a few travel journals, a scrap book, a notebook full of dreams, and several end-of-year journals created by the writing department of UBC. They are thin and only around 15 pieces are included, supposedly the best stories written by students for that calendar year.

I find my name in the index of 1995 and read my short non-fiction article. I am not overwhelmed but this was 25 years ago when I dreamed of becoming a writer. What happened? I don't know. Life got in the way and then as now I expect too much of myself.

So just for the record I'm going to record one of my first attempts at polishing a story. I am tempted to rewrite it but I won't. 

Dances with Words

Sometimes when I'm happy, I find myself doing a grand jete across the living room carpet or a soft shoe on the kitchen tile floor. Often, after a drink or two, I can't contain myself and cavort wherever I am. At forty-five, I enjoy dancing in a way I never could in my late teens.

"If it doesn't hurt, you aren't doing it right." I heard this line countless times at York University. As a theatre and dance major, I spent half my days at a wooden barre which ran the circumference of a huge gymnasium. Head held high, chest forward, bottom tucked under, I followed the classical exercises developed to force my body beyond its natural limits. Often after several hours of fighting myself, I would sit in the change room and cry. I was a circus animal being trained to perform unnatural acts to amuse an audience. No, I wasn't. A caged animal didn't have a choice: I was there willingly.

I'd wanted to be a dancer since I was eight years old, living with my family in a Toronto suburb. The Tilley kids lived next door and that summer their aunt, a ballet mistress in New York city, came to visit. She organized, on the small plot of grass in front of their brick bungalow, dance lessons for her nieces and me. After several sessions, she advised my mother to send me to ballet school: I was a born dancer. My mother, a frantic young woman of twenty-eight who was trying her best to raise my three sisters and me, had neither the inclination nor the means to get me to dance classes.

I was inspired to dance again when at fourteen I fell in love with the choreographer of my high school play. His mother ran the town's own dance school. Although my mother was still frantic, she did not object to classes because money was freer and the school was within walking distance.  In a shabby basement studio with barres running the length of two walls and an enormous mirror at one end, I pushed my body to perform.

As well as attending classes four days a week, I frequented dance spectacles to observe professional dances in action. By the end of most performances, my muscles ached from tensing and releasing in unison with those on stage. Such was not the case when I saw Martha Graham give one of her last performances. I forgot the mechanics of dance. I forgot the rest of the audience. Nothing registered except the presence of the grand matron of modern dance. 

She stood center stage, her tall figure shrouded in brown cloth like a mourner in Giotto's Lamentation. As if painted by the master himself, she confronted the audience without movement. Two achingly long minutes passed. Suddenly her head dropped forward and one arm, out of the folds of fabric shot upward. Her every move throughout the dance told of despair. Like a sorceress, she bewitched the audience.

I did not, even then, aspire to Graham's magic. I simply wanted to master technique and express myself through an art form I love. After struggling for two years at university, I realized that I had neither the body nor the attitude to perform professionally. 

I left and joined the Globe and Mail as a copywriter. Years passed. I married, moved to Vancouver, produced three children and finished my undergraduate degree. As I had once expressed myself through dancing, I now express myself through writing. Sometimes when I'm happy, I can't contain myself and words flow effortlessly. More often, I despair: words can never express what Martha Graham could with one simple thrust of her arm to the heavens. 

I found this an interesting exercise - to type out my twenty-five year old thoughts. They are so simple. Everything I write is simple and yet if I am to believe my friend Susan, simple writing is difficult.

Speaking of Susan, I found a note from her in my cupboard that she wrote me around thirty years ago:

"O YVONNE, LETS LIVE IN A FOOLS PARADISE. LETS PRAISE FOLLY AND PRACTICE IT. AT LEAST YOU HAVE FORCED ME TO THINK ABOUT - BY YOUR COMPLAINTS - WHAT A BIG THING BEING A FOOL IS - THE BIGGEST THING IN THE WORLD, THE BIGGEST WE CAN ACHIEVE. I WISH I HAD THE COURAGE TO BE A FOOL. AT LEAST YOU HAVE TAUGHT ME WITH ALL THIS CLAMOUR TO SEE CLEARLY THAT THIS IS WHAT I WANT. IT'S ALSO WHAT I RESPECT IN OTHER PEOPLE, REALLY RESPECT. BEING HAPPY AND HAVING THE COURAGE TO BE FOOLS IS VERY MUCH THE SAME THING. LETS BE HAPPY. S"

In four months, Susan turns 94. I wish I had the freedom to run over and talk to her, to remind her of this note but although she is only a block away, I am not allowed to visit and even if I could, I would be afraid that I'd contaminate her. She is so fragile.

Being house-bound is not the worst thing in the world. Not being able to visit those I love drags me down, makes me want to cry.

APRÈS ANAÏS NIN

Today, I have been cleaning my files, shredding what's unnecessary or duplicated.

Somewhere along the way I've forgotten my love of words and writing. I have been waylaid by my parents' deaths and self-imposed responsibilities and the feeling that I'm losing it.

Among my files, I found a quote by Goethe:

“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too."

I also came across a file of my writing and found a short prose piece that I had entered into a literary contest and won - second place (but one of the judges said it should have been first).

This short piece rolled from my pen. I imagined that I was Nin having a private conversation with Henry Valentine Miller:

"In a miniscule hotel room in Montmartre, I light candles and incense, sit with pen in hand gazing into space.  Have I ever told you, dear Henry, that my fingers are the most sensual part of my body?  They love the feel of a fountain pen, nib posed on an expanse of virginal white.   When I begin, I write slowly not knowing what to say or where to go.  But my fingers know.  They move by instinct, without calculation, playing with words, with phrases, even clichés—a kind of foreplay you might say.  The quiet strokes of my pen are an aphrodisiac willing me to go on and on, write faster and faster, until I reach the climax.  I want my brow to drip, my palms to sweat, my heart to beat faster.  Yours too.

The heater hisses.  I remove my clothes and imagine myself creating, in your words, a “literary fuck feast”.  Read me naked, if you dare.  As I explore myself on the page and you me, the juices start flowing.  I want to touch you in forbidden places.  Part of the pleasure of writing is going where I’m not supposed to go, saying what I’m not supposed to say.  I am allowed to be carnal, if I dare.  I dare.

With my fingers, I caress the page, a single leaf in the body of a notebook, delighting in its smoothness and the scent of paper and ink.  My nipples harden.  I spread my legs and expose a Georgia O’Keeffe flower in full bloom.  I love the colour of language, the taste of a well-chosen metaphor, and a whiff of indiscretion.  I am an adulteress.  The page is my lover. It lies before me awaiting my touch, loving the way I play and tease words onto paper.  I fill one line and then another, one page and then another, until I am panting and know, without a doubt, that I have found my true love.  This is where I belong.  This is what I should be doing.  I write faster and faster, faster and faster.  Where am I going?  I don’t care.  I am letting go of thought, moving for the sake of movement.  I can’t stop myself.  I am filled with desire.  I want to explode on the page.  I want… I want… I want... the climax.  My body dissolves.

Later, when I am refreshed, I look at this page and read what I have written and see that I have gone further than I intended to go.  “You are good,” I whisper to my love.  'You are so damn good.'  I know that tomorrow I will doubt my lust, my words.  My husband, my censor, who demands monogamy, will walk in, without knocking, and tear me apart limb by limb, sentence by sentence, word by word.  I don’t care at the moment.  I am in love."

One of the judges wrote: "This short piece of writing is extremely sensual, particularly the Georgia O'Keefe flower in full bloom. Good metaphor. The comparison with the page (body) of writing to the human body is well done. Then the protagonist's writing, which includes the "colour of language", etc. (and rises to an incredible climax) leaves everyone (reader and writer) satisfied and in love.

I liked this very much. Congratulations."

I was so proud of myself. 

Today I Dressed Up just for the Hell of it

I wrote this yesterday:

Some days I only dress in the afternoon. Other days I only dress early evening before I go on my allowed hour walk around the village.

Some days, I'm happy having time on my hands. Other days, I'm blue: I wonder how long it will be before I can hug, play, share a meal with family and friends. I am grateful that I had Paris, Vancouver, and London before the coronavirus really spread like wildfire and airports closed.

Now Rob and I "play" alone or quietly together, a little afraid of the Chronopost man who delivers parcels with gloved hands and we receive with bare hands (and immediately go to the sink and scrub).

When I awoke this morning and took my latte to the terrace still in my bathrobe, I thought it might be fun to dress up for a change - just for the hell of it. So I showered, dried my hair, applied a little rouge and lipstick, and chose one of my favourite dresses and sweaters - both from one of my favourite Parisian designer, Manuelle Guibal.

I wonder what Rob thinks of me. Does it matter to him if I'm wearing rags or riches? He never says so I dress for myself.

Feeling pretty, I signed my Attestation stating date and time, Rob signed his and we set off for a walk through the deserted town streets, down a hill, and stopped at a glorious stone wall for a glass of rose. (I had opened the bottle before leaving home, corked it, and put it in a sac with a couple of glasses just in case we felt like a libation in our liberated hour.)

I asked Rob to take a picture for the store. I worry about how it is going to survive with a full stock of spring and summer wear and the necessity of ordering for fall and paying the required 50% deposit.

I worry about all the designers including my beloved Manuelle Guibal and her large wonderful family. Does anyone want to buy beautiful clothes when, for the most part, their customers spend most of their time at home? Both LeslieJane and Manuelle Guibal have on-line stores but how willing are women to buy clothes without trying them on? Do they worry about the clothes being infected either by staff, packers, delivery people? (I have done a fair bit of reading about this and with a few precautions, it is safe.)

I know I am lucky. Rob too. We have few expenses. We have easy access to food and wine. We have computers with which we can see and talk to those we love, keep up with the news, watch movies, and listen to music. Rob is even taking an on-line French course.

Yes, we are lucky. The sun is shining and we live in one of the most beautiful villages in France and, as far as I know - and I say this in a whisper because I don't want to jinx it - we have no COVID-19 cases.