I am choreographing a solo (that I will be performing) for Santa Monica College's dance concert, Synapse (October 27&28). My piece comes from a vulnerable place, and has been giving me trouble. I just keep getting stuck. I think this has something to do with the fact that for the past two months I have oscillated between two emotions: exhausted, and ironic.
I even tried running into one of my ex-boyfriends in hopes of dredging some semblance of an emotion that would remind me of what it felt like to, well, have feelings. My plan was foiled, and later that night I found a most unbecoming photograph of him online that imbued me with something quite the opposite of longing. I fancied I might kiss him to remember what hurt tasted like, but I think it would have been breakfast I'd be tasting. Again. I should be happy to have moved on so thoroughly!
I guess there's still that dull ache I feel most days simply because existence is taxing in general, but I thrive on details. There was a boy I had a lingering crush on, and Emily suggested I ask him out, so that when rejected me I could use it as artistic fuel. Unfortunate that it was obvious I would be rejected, but not unfortunate enough to cry about. And if I did go and get rejected it would be too relevant.
I ended up making a digital makeout mixtape. There's always that song you end up making out to. It's awfully powerful stuff. Full of promises; and promises are like glasses of water. The more empty, the more resonant the sound. Those songs were fat with good memories gone bad. I was laying alone in my bed with my feet pressed against the wall. Sitting in the passenger seat, being sung about. Watching in the bathroom mirror as he kissed me. Holding still in the dark while he read Neruda into my ear...in spanish.
I felt sad. Hooray.