tuckova

too few to mention

It is my great regret that I never read to you like I promised I would, because if I had read to you, you would have loved me. I regret that I did not paint what you wanted, because if I had painted it, you would have loved me. I'm sorry that we never went to the sea together, because if we had, if you'd seen me in that element of salt instead of soaked in my tears, you would have loved me. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I have to remember that we never said the words, because I feel like we did but we didn't, and maybe if we had, you would have loved me. Maybe it's simple: If I had told you I loved you, you would have loved me. Or biological: if I had been a man, you would have loved me. Maybe I should have tried harder, been prettier, stronger, sweeter, less myself and more what you wanted, maybe if I'd spoken less or more, maybe if I hadn't written that one letter, or maybe if I had written that one note, slipped it under your door at night with a yellow rose and a seashell, maybe if I hadn't left to give you time to think, or maybe if I had left so you could have followed me. Maybe if I'd trusted you. Maybe if I hadn't. I played it every way and the results were the same, but maybe if I'd played it the other way you would have loved me. 

This is backwards. If you had loved me, I would have read to you. Our paintings would dance on the wall behind us. The sea would have been one more place where we loved each other. Words are only worth what they mean, spoken or otherwise, and I am no man. I am who I am and anything else would have been a lie, and I wouldn't have wanted you if you loved a liar, even if I had desperately wanted to believe it was true. I regret nothing. You could never have loved me. 

everything was beautiful at the ballet

I went to the ballet last night. One of my dearest friends here had been gone for a month, and I wanted to celebrate his return, and another of my dearest friends has put up with a disproportionate amount of my chaos lately, and I wanted to celebrate her sweetness, and also I will not miss an excuse for what looks like a good ballet, which it did. So we went.

The first piece was Serenade, by George Balanchine. Bunch of pretty girls fluttering their arms about, with some guys trying to look like the goblin king in the pants department wandering around. One can like it, but it was: meh. I hate to say that. I mean, here I'm looking at a stage full of athletes and all I can think is: let's do math with Balanchine, because it really looked like illustrations of math problems or something. Not word problems, either. So mostly I sat there thinking about WHY I didn't like it, which is not really the feeling you want in the theater.

The second piece was Sofa, by Olivier Wevers, and that was totally different. There was a purple velvet sofa, and everybody danced on and under and around it, and it was awesome. It made me think of high school and how I couldn't have boys in my room but we could be in the living room, and how the sofa was like a way station to where we wanted to go, and the center of slumber parties, and where we watched TV, and it is still all those things, the sofa is so central, and these dancers were fighting and kicking and kissing and teasing all on a sofa, just like us, except of course way more elegantly and their feet probably hurt a lot more. And in this I felt fully engaged and delighted.

The third piece was Lunar Sea, by Moses Pendleton, danced by MOMIX, a sort of black light madness and chaos. Like the first one, it didn't have a story, but it was so busy and stimulating visually that it didn't need one. And so we watched people split open, creatures with four legs dancing across the stage, absolutely a hundred things to look at. 

We ran across the street in the rain, ducked into a clean well-lighted place for tapas and wine, and talked and talked, the beauty of this, three generations of ballet in one evening, and how the first one made sense because we could see now how that non-narrative mathematical beauty made the other two possible, and how the third one called back to it, and how amazing it is to be able to see this when it is presented like that. It was delightful. I was delighted.

I Wonder by Derek Tasker

I wonder what would happen if
I treated everyone like I was in love
with them, whether I like them or not
and whether they respond or not and no matter
what they say or do to me and even if I see
things in them which are ugly twisted petty
cruel vain deceitful indifferent, just accept
all that and turn my attention to some small
weak tender hidden part and keep my eyes on
that until it shines like a beam of light
like a bonfire I can warm my hands by and trust
it to burn away all the waste which is not
never was my business to meddle with.

Recipe for Happiness, Khaborovsk or Anywhere Else, by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

One grand boulevard with trees
with one grand cafe in sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups.

One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you.

One fine day.