Rachel Dacus's Blog, page 4

September 18, 2014

It's something only you can give yourself: a space to create, sweet as ripe cherries. To find it, buy it with love for your creative self, wrap it in ethereal sheets of time, and then unwrap it as though you deserve every crinkle of the delicate paper and every silky ribbon of ink. You give yourself permission to NOT write a word. Not even think. To drift, a poet in poet time with the willingness to do absolutely nothing if that's what comes. To think about writing without necessarily saying anything is permission. Here's a poem about it from my book Gods of Water and Air.
 
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Such is the fate </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">of so much art. But only the serious kind.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">At least this artist won’t starve.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Looking at a half bowl of cherries</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I still want to create. Maybe a painting</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">of the pits in another bowl, so much life</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">gone by. Or perhaps a poem about the greed</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">of the painter for sensuous delight, story</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">of artists and their models through the ages</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">and also the story of the art</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">that was never made</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">while they became their own</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">works of art. Jade bowl. Stems.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Hungers ripe and aching.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Summer’s half moon warmth.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Tender flesh. (Note to self:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">They were so ripe and cold.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Put cherries on the grocery list. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">The dark ones this time.) </span></span></div><br />I'm offering a 10% discount off the Amazon price of <i>Gods of Water and Air </i>during September. Write to me if you want one!<br /><br />
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Published on September 18, 2014 09:42 • 4 views

September 4, 2014

I'm happy to celebrate the one-year anniversary of my collection of poetry, prose, and short drama, Gods of Water and Air. Thanks to Karen Kelsay and Aldrich Press (an imprint of Kelsay Books) for creating a beautiful print book from my manuscript and supporting it! And thanks to all of you who bought a copy and read it. I'm going to make my book a little cake for its birthday, which I'm calling September 4 (the day I got my first copies). Here are the candles -- I wish it to reach more of you in this coming year! You can get it at Amazon, or if you order from me directly (email me at rachel@dacushome.com), I'll offer a 10% discount from the Amazon price for this month.
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Published on September 04, 2014 15:13 • 12 views

August 29, 2014

Asilomar Beach, Photo by Heather OsborneJeannine Hall Gailey responded to Timothy Green's Facebook about the responsibilities (and guilt and anxiety) of a poet in promoting a book. Jeannine's post encourages us to forgive ourselves for not doing everything imaginable at our own cost: organizing cross-country book tours, banner ads, local readings, mailing out dozens of reviews copies, etc. Tim's post lamented the lack of support from his publisher. He gave  numbers: 105 sold by the publisher, 200+ sold by the poet. Around 305 total books sold. There you have it: about 300 sales is what you can expect as a poet with a good audience.

I don't do readings. Well, I do if invited, but I don't go out of my way to get invited, and that's because though I enjoy doing them, it involves some anxiety and preparation and I have a very busy life. I like to give my free time to writing new things. I can't afford book tours and ads. And I'm very grateful to my publisher,
So how do I promote
I do what I can and subscribe to Jeannine's philosophy. Also, I'm going to take
Here's a poem from my book:


Taken
I was especially taken
with the grasses today, their herringbone
weaves and golds, purples, and greens,
the seed pods floating
like butterflies on tall stems.I felt like a boat in a restless ocean
at sunset, among its moving flecks
and hues, rocked by the wind
with tangled bird trills, and the Earth yawned and mouthed me
and tongued my neck.
My speech came in medleys
of mood. I swayed
saying the Beloved’s name
with endless vowels.I was especially taken
to the bone-clean rock
owned by a tiny lizard blinking
with its pebbled lid,
and when it slunk down,
hugging its planet, I went
home hugging my heart.







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Published on August 29, 2014 09:18 • 5 views

August 28, 2014

Thank you, The Poetry Storehouse, for including my poem "As Yearning Is Red" in the collection. This marvelous video remix of the poem, a film by En Doubluu of my poem read by Marie Craven, with music by Titee, showed up today on Facebook. What a lift into the air for my writing day! The Poetry Storehouse is a collection of poems and poetry remixes that is the brainchild of the amazing poet and poetry entrepreneur Nic Sebastian.
The poem is from my collection Gods of Water and Air. Here's the text:

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I passed as he paused </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">to float on a thermal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I was heading downhill </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">and he was gliding</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">down to the creek. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">We were nearly eye level.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I had a precarious feeling, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">as if my marching feet</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">had risen off the ground.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">His wings rippled several times </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">as he held onto the wind. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">They rippled again:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">a lace bedspread shaken out. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">He was white as yearning</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">is red and still as night’s </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">first sip of moon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Then the luminous being was gone, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">leaving me ruffled and aired, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">forever feathered,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">able to lift </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">on the beat of a breath.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>
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Published on August 28, 2014 09:48 • 3 views

August 18, 2014

I'm coming down the home stretch (= two-thirds through) of what I sincerely hope is the final revision of my time travel novel, The Renaissance Club. I'm past fallen-in-love with Gianlorenzo Bernini -- I'm in the forming-a-fan-club stage. If only for this sculpture of Apollo and Daphne, made early in his magnificent career as a sculptor. He was also the official architect of St. Peter's Basilica in Rome under two popes.

 When I say buried I really mean it. Buried in research, juggling plot lines and character growth steps in my ever-expanding memory, metering out metaphors to enrich but not overburden the narrative -- all while dancing to the tune of my clients' fundraising needs and juggling all THAT sea of information. I feel like the Beach Blanket Babylon lady wearing the hat containing all of San Francisco, but thank God I have some props and poles to lean the weight on. Thank God for the Internet, or the pile of books near my bed and couch would be even worse. Thank God for laptops. Oh, and thank God for the Renaissance. And for the wise and comprehensive advice from my editor, Arielle Eckstut of The Book Doctors. Even while juggling all this, I'm sort of relaxed because I have a handy list of What Needs to Happen Next.

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Published on August 18, 2014 10:16 • 6 views

July 22, 2014

If you haven't got a copy of my new book, Gods of Water and Air, I'm offering a hefty discount. It's a book with poetry, prose, and even This collection has prose a once-act  play (about the afterlife of dogs). 135 pages of summer reading -- a deal!

This price is good through July 31!  Email me (rachel@dacushome.com) to order one direct, for only $11.00 + shipping. (Amazon charges $2 more.) Here's a taste.


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Whatever else</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">explains this morning’s layers of birdsong and wind?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">A musical threading of our years’ arabesques </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">of absences. You admit relationships </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">are either art or science, so don’t those lean winter trees </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">somehow alliterate with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">alien</i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lenient</i>?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">And the air’s tang reverberate with the new year’s </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">blossom pink? Our rising mountain years, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">the waterfalls of doubt we scurried beneath, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">our bare legs and umbrellas like a print by Hokusai.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Love is different than a work of art, I agree.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">The layers keep rearranging </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">their chrysanthemum geometry. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">We remain an unfinished still life, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">breaking into a cantata of dish clinks </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">and dogs whining – and yet</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">pristine breakfast silence </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">can cloud with lyric all our logic.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>
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Published on July 22, 2014 17:05 • 3 views

July 3, 2014

Happy Fourth! If you haven't got a copy of my new book, Gods of Water and Air, I'm offering a hefty discount on Gods of Water and Air to celebrate midsummer. This collection has prose as well -- even a small play. Email me (rachel@dacushome.com) to order one direct from me, for only $11.00 + shipping (135 pages -- a deal!). Or you can get it from Amazon. Here's a taste.

From "Prayers for Everywhere":

Prayers for the volcanoes
that need garlands when they erupt
and prayers for the freeways
you never drive them the same twice,
prayers for the buds
that look like babies' faces
as they open next week and for the blossoms
opening their soft legs to the bees.

Prayers for everything the soul
must reluctantly or passionately kiss:
rain-running gutters, a pebble in the shoe,
the silt gritty on your ocean-washed lips.

Because what is a prayer
but a laugh that can't be formed
in letters, but only heard
in that place that, praised, lights up.
So prayers for everywhere
that needs them.
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Published on July 03, 2014 15:46 • 6 views

June 26, 2014

Today I'm working on my time travel novel set in Renaissance and present-day Italy, featuring the genius sculptor and architect who invented The Baroque style, Gianlorenzo Bernini. Of this sumptuous sculpture of Bernini's beloved, Costanza Piccolomini, art historian Jonathan Jones wrote: "He has made an intimate monument to secret moments, a sculpted memento of his lover, whose marble reality dissolves, when you chance on her among the stony dead, into breath, life. Bernini's genius for motion is dedicated to making his lover live for ever. Her wild hair and loose clothes speak of energy and passion. He has caught her mid-glance, mid-conversation, perhaps before or after sex."

What was the truth of the Bernini's relationship with his assistant's wife? We may never know, though if you read my book, you could learn the secrets. Wikipedia tersely sums up the interesting facts: "... Costanza Bonarelli, with whom [Bernini] fell in love when her husband was working as Bernini's assistant in 1636. The normally polite Bernini openly insulted the husband, which led Pope Urban VIII to intervene before anyone was killed. He advised Bernini to get married, which he did, in 1639, to Caterina Tezio. Their marriage lasted 34 years and produced 11 children."

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Published on June 26, 2014 09:50 • 4 views

June 23, 2014

The only way to sanely start a week, if you're a poet, is with metaphor. Reading to start and revising is the juice. I have three inches of print drafts to plow through, how many e-files, and am grabbing summer by the shorthairs to make a space for poetry. I need to make a fresh pile of worked-up stuff, need time and peace. Hedging my priorities. Here's one from Gods of Water and Air. Have a luminous day.

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I’ve left the actual </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">California to contemplate its light </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">and illuminated mists, the way they billow </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">and thin as the sun’s roving spotlights</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">ray out over inky valley oaks. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">That dot on the hills---</span><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">a wagon train?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Stunned settlers stopped to ponder </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">a life so wide. They’ll snug their hopes </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">into cabins and live in miniature</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">under skies with county-large shadows.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">One among them wonders</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">how to cover a canvas with this horizon. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Bringing their pianofortes, they plunge</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">into birdsong thick along the river’s length </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">and the rattle of a thousand alders.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">With their cousins and aunts </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">they weave through rock fields </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">and forests the size of cities. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">This landscape devours. They enter </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">the kind of time that turns grandly </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">and meanders. I wait for them, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">learning to see their earth’s</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">pastels of space and light, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">wanting to take it back outside </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">and free it from the frame.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span> <br /><br /><br />
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Published on June 23, 2014 10:10 • 24 views

June 20, 2014

DISCOUNT -- I decided that Midsummer Metaphors discount didn't go far -- or long -- enough. I'm lowering the special price for now on my book GODS OF WATER AND AIR through the end of July to just $10. And offering a sample of the memoir and poems in it here -- below. Just email me at rachel@dacushome.com if you want to grab one!

I love writing in the summer, so the title Midsummer Metaphors is literally what I'm doing in these mild months -- often outdoors, in a nearby field or on my decks overlooking trees full of birds and squirrels and breezes. The flow of nature encourages my creative work in a way that being cooped up inside in the winter does not. Childhood in southern California is to blame, where we opened up all the doors and windows and ate outside on the patio every night. I didn't know a house was meant to contain everything a family does. And the beach. Lots of beach time changes you.

So her's the taste -- "Eight en Croix," a story of growing up as the bipolar rocket scientist's kid.

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My mother was at Long Beach State afternoons earning her teaching credential, and Dad was at his new apartment. Everything was changing, so I needed a daily dose of tradition. I found it at Rosalie and Alva’s Ballet Theatre on Weymouth Corners, next to Perry's Five-and-Dime, where after four o'clock class I could load up on bubble gum and chocolate bars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Raychelle, point your toe!" shouted Rosalie. Six years of study, and she never pronounced my name right, but she was like radar on an unpointed toe.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Rosalie pounded her stick on the floor and bull-horned another order – something about a bent knee. With her hair tucked under a white turban and her coral-painted lips and hair, she looked like Rhonda Fleming playing a female yogi. Rosalie raced around the room, bending an arm here, poking a leg there, shouting. Everything about her was theatrical and excessive, from her fabulous arches to her rusty garage door shriek. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"You have great potential," she had told me. "You may even have talent, if you can find the drive. If you want to dance, you can't think about anything else."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">This was a problem for a shy dreamer with too many hobbies, but I was a faithful student, taking four classes a week. Rosalie was a model of her own philosophy. Though her dancing had been in movie musicals and night clubs, not in ballet companies, she was devoted to high art, and hoped her students would exceed her career of high-lift ballroom dancing with Alva. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Talent was a potent word, one my mother shied away from when I showed her my stories and poems. "Very few people have talent," she said. "It's inborn." Dad said even straight A's did not mean you could rest on your talent. I was desperate for someone to discover it had been born in me, talent for something. I knew I had a destiny that had something great about it. Rosalie seemed to think I might have talent, which in her view had nothing to do with being born.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">In a studio filled with music, passion and pink satin, springing to my toes on a pliant wood floor, despite intense pressure on my knees and toe joints, I could feel talent steaming off my skin. It propelled me into the air. I imagined I might pause in mid-air, as they said Nijinsky did. So I did my eight en croix, four on a side, figuring I would do these exercises every day until I died, because satin toe shoes were levitation devices. With them, I could float onto imagination's gauzy stage, a soloist at last. The cavernous, raftered studio had once been a warehouse and still smelled faintly of walnuts, but it was so capacious that I could leap and spin across it far and fast, feeling myself an object of pure momentum. Ballet was one thing girls could do better than boys, better than anything in my father's supersonic world of satellites, apogees and payloads. Music was energy flowing through me, and I needed no quadratic equation to catch its waves and ride. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Rosalie said I had some physical defects, but determination could overcome almost any defect. I had just seen Margot Fonteyn dance at the Hollywood Bowl with that handsome Russian defector Nureyev in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Romeo and Juliet.</i> They were so perfectly paired and he danced behind her with such reverence that I felt I could do pliés forever to dance like that.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Talent will out," my mother said mysteriously. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I did not know what this meant, but would rather hear Rosalie say, "Raychelle, you must work, work, work." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">With my tendons stretched so taut in an arabesque I thought they might snap, I thought, if this isn't talent, I give up. Rosalie came over and whacked my leg with her stick. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"That's where your arabesque must be. Have you gained some weight?" </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I had no reply, but she had moved on to her next demolition.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I was three inches shorter than everyone my age and getting worried, but Rosalie said that at twelve, no one knows how your body will come out. She kept yelling at me to tuck my bottom under, and there was that thing about my knees, but I could do three pirouettes in a row and jump so high the class once broke into applause. Surely this was talent outing.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">At Thanksgiving dinner, I looked at my father's squat Russian family, their muscular legs and unwaisted torsos. Aunt Fritzi and Uncle Ed both had paunches and necks so short they looked like those Russian wooden dolls that nest inside each other. They had munchkin-stumpy legs. Thanks to Rosalie, I possessed a power of concentration that was going to shape my growing body. I studied photos of Pavlova, Karsavina, and Nijinsky. They were Russian, weren't they? </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">The next week, I lifted my leg so high I could feel it pull at the back of my tongue. I would never be able to do this again. I waited for Rosalie as she walked slowly down the line of girls, frowning. She stopped.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Good, Raychelle." She whacked my quivering foot. "Now don't sickle your foot." </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">That was the week Dad moved out for good. It was just like another of his trips to Cape Canaveral for a missile launch, only Mom said he was never coming back. You would think after all the fighting, I would have been prepared, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> was so huge a word it made me nauseous. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Everyone kept telling me that I was starting the best part of my life. My English teacher said that in high school I could be on the school newspaper. Joyce's mother said high school was the best time for a girl, with cheerleading and proms. Lana's mom said I would be adorable in poodle skirts and as a dancer be a hit at sock hops. Rosalie said I could not afford to be distracted by these things. In a year or two, I should be auditioning for a major ballet school. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"But what about college?" I asked.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">She looked surprised. "Dancers don't have time for college."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">So it was time to decide, and it was no contest. Ballet – one hundred, other stuff – zero. Ballet was my talent, the single thing right with my life. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">This was a shock, since my family had always assumed I would go to college, but it was not hard to decide. Ballet was the single thing right with my life.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">In 1962, America was just inventing divorce as a social institution, but in San Pedro, it lowered your standing. Once, we had been the well-off newcomers on the hill, but now our Italian, Portuguese and Croatian neighbors, with their relatives crammed into tiny bungalows, pitied us. My brother and I showed up at PTA meetings and Fourth of July barbecues with only a mom. My girl friends subtly flaunted their intact families. My parents said none of this was our fault, but I knew it was my fault, with my smart mouth (Dad said), my fusses (said Mom). Clearly, I was the family wrecking ball and it was up to me to fix everything.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"It's just a garden party to you girls,” Rosalie said.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">We had just done a series of leaps across the huge floor – not once, but three times. Rosalie<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>shook her head so hard her dangling earrings hit her cheeks. She made a mock tragic face and put her forehead on her arm, pretending to sob, always getting more out of us with laughs. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Once more! Just so I don't have to jump off the roof!"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">The summer show was coming and soon Rosalie would be casting. We summoned what little breath we had and did the fourth series of jumps.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Rosalie stopped me after class. "Raychelle, for this show, I have something special in mind for you."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">She explained that the part she had in mind would be a short Russian dance, a duet with Alva. I became so excited that it was difficult to concentrate as she explained that it would be a showy folk dance, as authentic as possible, with shoulder shimmying and foot-stamping, perfect for me, since I was part Russian.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Are you interested? Do you think you can come to a lot of rehearsals and work very hard?" </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I never worked so hard at anything in my life. When I had been a butterfly or a snowflake, all I had to worry about was not stepping on the feet of the girl in front of me. This year, there would only be two of us onstage for two and a half minutes. That was one hundred and fifty seconds. A second is a long time in ballet. A pirouette only takes five. A leap, including preparation and landing, only ten. Basically, I had to be perfect and then leap onto Alva's shoulder with split-second timing, because that was when the music stopped.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I nearly quit the first few times we ran through it, but Rosalie was very patient, talking me through my first lift by demonstrating with Alva. After only four tries, I found myself atop Alva's shoulder, staring down at the world from a height of eight feet. Talk about levitating!</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Rosalie shrewdly made use of my rhythm and jumping ability, as well as Alva’s strength and presence. She had a sense of pizzazz that wowed them in San Pedro. It was going to be a magnificent work, the centerpiece of our show. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">We were responsible for our own costumes in the shows, either purchasing or making them. Since this was a solo, Rosalie left its design to me. My mother and I got a library book on Russian costumes. She took me to the May Company and we found a white cotton blouse with loose sleeves. Mom sewed a peasant skirt out of an embroidered tablecloth and made me a little black vest. Rosalie banished the thought of toe shoes – this was a folk dance! I had to wear something that looked like boots, but softer. We made cloth leggings to pull over my black ballet slippers. Rosalie found a garland of fake flowers for my hair. She arranged for the local newspaper to photograph me and Alva in our finale pose. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"This will make a great picture for the papers," she said. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">It did. There I was, looking like a real Russian dancer, my waist-length hair pulled over one shoulder the way the Moiseyev dancers wore it. The San Pedro News Pilot actually mentioned my name. They also wrote about the bleachers Alva had installed to accommodate a larger audience, along with their new, machine drawn velvet curtain.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I heard from friends and neighbors that they were all coming, though not all approved of my plan to become a dancer. Lana's mother gave me advice from a movie. This was to be expected from a one-time actress.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"You must see 'The Red Shoes' darling," Mrs. Malloy said. She was always telling me to pattern my life after some movie. "You don't want to end up like that poor girl, throwing herself off the roof of the theater because she couldn't choose between love and the stage."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I thought anyone who had a ballet career and killed herself was a moron. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">'Why don't you think about joining the Peace Corps," said Joyce's mom. She thought everything President Kennedy did was wonderful, especially this new program to send rich kids around the world to help poor kids. "After you've been to Ghana or Chile, you can decide about the stage." She said 'the stage' as if it were akin to leaping off a roof.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">My mother responded with, "Well, if that's what you really want" and changed the subject. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">A week before the performance, my mother decided we should go all-out for my appearance. She took me to the corner hair stylist for a chic new haircut. The stylist’s hand swashed through the air, as he lopped off my waist-length mop. A cut here, a cut there; he said he was making the most of my "Oriental eyes." I waited to look until he swooped off the cloth and there in the mirror was a Chinese doll with a chin-length bob. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Fabulously chic!" he said. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I went to sleep that night secure of stardom. I looked like those girls on American Bandstand with velvet headbands and dimples. I knew my part so well I could dance it in my sleep. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Rosalie walked into the studio the next day, took one look at me, and shrieked. Her face twisted like a dishrag. I thought she was having a seizure. Alva came running out of the shop.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"What have you done?" she screamed. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">For a few moments, we were in a standoff of mutual disbelief. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Alva! What are we going to do? Just look at her!"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Alva's voice was, as always, deep and slow. "Now, Rosalie, calm down. What's all the fuss?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Her hair! Look at her hair – it isn't there! Raychelle has ruined her appearance! She doesn't look Russian now, she looks like all the girls." </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I had never seen her so angry. She would not even look at me. "Alva, what about a wig? We can put a wig on her."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Oh, Rosalie, I don't think so. She doesn't need it. She looks plenty Russian." </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Rosalie turned to me, now composed in fury: "NEVER alter your appearance before a performance. NEVER make a change without asking your director. I only gave you that part because of your long hair!"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">   </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">She turned and stomped out. Alva smiled sadly and mumbled that I should not worry, Rosalie was always getting worked up. I walked to the dressing room to change back into my clothes feeling dizzy under the sudden, palpable absence of hair. All these years of hard work gone in a few snips. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I was thinking I would call in a few days and tell them I was sick. Let Rosalie dance the duet. She would be better, with her glazed smile, her showy gestures and beautiful feet.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Carmen came around the corner and said, "Don't let her get you down, honey."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Great. She had probably heard the whole thing and by tomorrow everyone would know that I had only been given a solo because I could grow hair. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Carmen put her hand on my shoulder, but it did no good. "She does this every year. Last year she picked on me because I streaked my hair! Cheer up, honey. She'll get over it."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">My father called to say he was coming to all three performances. "I want to see my little star get lots of applause." His gravel voice did its best cooing, trying to make up for leaving us, but I was not going to give him satisfaction. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Great, Dad," I said and hung up. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">After another miserable day, I decided that the best revenge on Rosalie would be for me to give three knockout performances. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">In the wings before the first performance, my legs were shaking so badly I thought my teeth would fall out. They continued to shake as I went on, forcing the top half of me to shimmy and my lips to smile. The critical moment came. I jumped so hard I almost hit Alva in the head, but there I was, on his shoulder, looking out and the audience was applauding. I smiled into a blur of light. I don't even remember taking bows, but I walked off triumphant.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">My nerves were better by Saturday night. By Sunday afternoon, I was actually looking forward to it. I shimmied with verve, twinkled at Alva, and then twirled out to the end of our<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>extended arms to prepare for my leap. The penultimate chord sounded, I jumped – and missed Alva's shoulder, sliding down the side of his body. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">That was it. There was no more music. I could hear the audience draw a collective breath as I looked frantically into the wings for Rosalie. What was she signaling? Try again, try again! </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">In silence I spun out again arm’s length from Alva, thinking that if I did not make it up there, I was going to just walk offstage. Then I jumped. Alva yanked my arm so hard I thought I might fly right past him. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">And there I was again, eight feet high. They were cheering and whistling! Someone came out of the audience toward me. It was my father, holding a bouquet. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">My exhilaration did not fade when the bouquet did. I pressed it into a scrapbook, along with the article, pasting down a rare spotlight. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">When Dad came a couple weekends later to take me out on a jaunt, he exclaimed, “My beautiful daughter! You're growing more beautiful every day.” </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">He never said a word about the performances as we went on his usual round of errands. Coasting down Seventh Street hill, he talked about his new painting, a study of the bait tank on a fishing boat. He said Connor did not like his impressionistic style, but what did Connor know, he couldn't tell crap from a good grade of clay, and what were those crazy numbers he painted all over his canvases?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">Dad talked about the stupid woman in the car ahead of us, who failed to signal at every right turn. He asked me how my school work was coming. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Okay, I guess. I got an A in English, but Dad, I really want to talk about dancing. I want to be a ballerina like Margot Fonteyn."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"Damn it! You shouldn't talk to me while I'm making a turn. Now I have to go all the way around three blocks. So you got an A, huh?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">We cruised by the docks and the bobbing tuna boats. My life goal seemed to hiss away with the gulls. If my own father found it unimportant, who would? Of course my life was never going to get started, not here. What San Pedran worried about arabesques and turnout? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Art?</i>I could almost hear the longshoremen mutter. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ballerinas?</i> whistled the pelicans<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. I’ll give you Art,</i> frowned the man behind the counter at the Army-Navy Surplus Store – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for a nickel</i>. I had a feeling only the cold, shifting sea could describe.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">In a rare silence, I again broached the subject of dancing professionally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>This time Dad seemed to hear me, but his reply was puzzling.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"My father was an architect during the Depression," Dad said. "Now there was a useless profession." He hummed a jazz riff in a tuneless bass and tapped rhythm on the wheel.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">"I really want to be a dancer," I said, leaving out the last part: "instead of go to college." </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">“Whatever my beautiful daughter decides, she will do it well.” </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">He said it as if a beautiful girl was something to roll up and fire off into the stratosphere. At that moment, something was born in me, but it had to find a way to thrive in a world of women making scratch pies and handmade Christmas ornaments so their husbands could invent better living through chemistry and outer space. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: MingLiU_HKSCS-ExtB;">I made up my mind. I was going for a different stratosphere, even if I had to invent it. And Rosalie was going to launch me. Just as soon as I grew some more hair.</span></div>
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Published on June 20, 2014 10:11 • 3 views