Nameless; the Beauty of Dancing as a Woman

I can't recall if I have talked about this or not, and frankly I am too lazy to search my own blog, but I have season tickets to the Dance St. Louis season. I have for the past three or four years. I am completely enamored with dance, the artistry and athleticism. It just amazes me. 

That being said, the industry is not free from fault. The pressure they place on dancers to obtain an unrealistic body image is unnecessary. I remember the dancers in college, who were already thin, constantly dieting to get skinnier, and girls with breasts being berated because of their boobs. I definitely understand that a slender person makes a better line, but once slender becomes emaciated the boney ridges of a gaunt arm or torso or leg can distort the line. It seems as though female dancers are forced to lose their femininity to pursue their passion. As an ardent supporter of women that look like women, this crushes my soul, just a bit. 

Luckily, there is usually the one standout. The girl that somehow fought the system and won. She manages to steal my focus every time. Last Saturday, I took my dad to the Joffrey Ballet, and she showed up, only for the first piece In the Middle, Somewhat Elevated, but she was there. And not only did she look like a healthy woman, she was a ginger in a sea of dark hair fading into dark curtains. So I wrote this for her, whoever she is.

Nameless 

You 

With angry hair 

Tamed 

Steals focus 

Even when moving in unison 

You 

Eclipse her 

Like moon hiding sun 

Allowing but a rim of light 

While your milky radiance 

Illuminates dark corners 

Then 

You 

Reach center stage 

Full breasts and soft skin 

Your smoldering movements 

Force eyes upon you 

To bear witness to woman

I could not find a photo of her, in this piece, on-line, and I did not want to distort the image by providing a picture of someone else, but I did find a snippet of the piece performed by another dance company which I thought might help you get into the mood.  

Within Her Arms: Recalling the Movement

The day before I went in for my surgery I had the pleasure of seeing Hubbard Street Dance Company, out of Chicago, perform with the St. Louis Symphony. It was the merger of so many passions, exploding through each of my senses, leaving me mind numb and in love, as all great art should do. 

What the wonderful haze of anesthesia made me forget were the notes I jotted down during the performance. One dance, Twice (Once), choreographed by Terence Marling and set to "Within Her Arms" by Anna Clyne, had a powerful affect on me. There is something about hearing the dancer's breath that always moves me, but this piece went to the next level. The music was inspired as was the movement. After finding the notes, I wrote a little something in response to my experience.

Feather Light

Their breath rose above bowed bass drone
Exhaled in unison
While moving in opposition
Counter balance
Fabric
Sheer
White
Innocent
Released
Effortless as limbs launched into air
First flight
Controlled by extension of hands on waists
Now draped over grounded limbs
Stage right light shadowed statues
She
Feather light and shallow breath
Resolved independently
Within her arms 

While I was unable to find a picture of the exact moment I tried to capture with my words, I thought this shot would help you to see what was in my head while writing.

Micro Poetry: January – February (2012)

March 2nd and already Mother Nature is reeking havoc in the Midwest. This morning found me eyes open and ears alert to the sounds of hail and thunder. 

Before I can turn my pen towards these wonders, I wanted to give you my #MicroPoetry recap for January and February. As always, there may have been some slight modifications since the original post but most should be familiar to those that follow me on Twitter or are my Facebook friends. 

 

Micro Poetry: January – February (2012)

We greeted midnight

Wearing our birthday best

Lips and legs locked

Hands roaming

We paused to welcome it

Exhaustion

Sits heavy on tired bones and body

Mind

Restless

Removes surface images

Focuses on true joy of your smile

I have been here before

Separated from heard

Wolves circling

Teeth gnashing

No longer a fawn

I use my rack to escape

I sat in silence

Stunned

Tracing words with eyes

Like they formed a picture

Not a paragraph

Alone

Empty

And I

Trapped in a sensory montage

Bury emotions

Silence the heart

Clamber for awakened thought

Fingernails track forearms

Cold sweat shivers

Life patterns disturbed

Rocking

Comforts a soul

Fixated on quitting you

I lay

In black morning silence

Staring at a vacant pillow

Waiting for a sunshine that never came

I loved you since I first feared you

God like grumble chasing explosions in the sky

Had me counting distance

Waiting for your arrival

Thought about you

As I massaged your abandoned lotion into my skin

It smelled of late night laughter and hot kisses

Chased the black snake

Through pre-sun morning

Watched it disappear into fog

Like an ancient magician

Laying in bed

Listening to Grace

Clutching pillow close to chest

Craving the sensation of your skin on mine

Fought the buzz

Silenced it with one swift punch

It waited 540 clicks

Then retaliated with a vengeance

Forced neurotransmitters to cross synapses

Seeking clarity of creative thought

Clouded by life's what-if white noise

Slow movement morning

Another physical reminder of youth's fade

Like the grey threatening to overthrow the brown

I found him

Hiding behind toxic eyes

Love drunk

Gazing at the world with malcontent

Like a dog staring at his cage

Descending from heavens

Mechanical Angel lands sharply

Allowing God's children to put feet to soil

Vacation coffee

Opens senses wide

To experience new morning

Spanish moss

Hangs from limbs

Like ghosts of witches

Long ago persecuted

Live Oak leaf

Solitary

Spins through atmosphere

Like bird with broken wing

Still trying to

Having deflected arrows with potioned points

I am alone

Neither wanting nor content

Just alone

Silent

Reflective

I giggle when I think of you

Return myself to shared experiences

And conversations about nothing

That meant everything

In Fact, I am NOT Superman...

I woke-up to three distinct waves of pain, one after another but equidistant from the one proceeding and following. "Does that hurt?" asked the faceless form.

"Yeah. That just hurt really bad."

"That's just everything getting situated."

I woke-up again to Teresa, my, first of many, nurses, asking if I wanted some ice-water. The water was so cold it burned as I drew it into my body.

I lost days in there.

What was supposed to be a simple hernia surgery with a three-day (at worst) hospital stay, turned into a nine day fiasco. I spent a considerable amount of time pre-surgery pro/coning a post about what I was going to undergo, but it was a hernia surgery, my fourth hernia surgery to be more accurate. I have friends that are dealing with real shit, Cancer...deaths in the family.... I didn't want anyone worrying about me for no reason. Sure they were using a new technique, but I am superman. I never even took post-surgery pain medication. Despite the warnings about this procedure, I was gonna be different. I was gonna show the surgeon that I could tough it out.

I first realized I was not Superman on Tuesday, February 21st. After getting myself up to do a little sink shower and then sit in the chair. My nurse found me grey and clammy, having sweat through my hospital gown, essentially passed out on the chair, and I learned a new word: tachycardia. I'll let you look it up. After the death finally made its way completely out of my lungs, I resolved that issue, and then it was on the the stomach. Was it going to work post surgery?

In true Ketzer fashion, when it did decide to work again (pretty sure this was late Wednesday; again, I lost days in there), it wanted to show everyone how efficient it was...what a masterpiece of production. Doctors, as I have learned, do not appreciate efficiency, so they wanted to see it work normally. By Saturday things were functioning close enough to a version of normal that Sunday was destine to be my freedom sacrifice; fitting really.

Sadly, my body was at it again, this time showing just how productive it could be with its white blood cells. I have no fever, no new pain, no redness, nothing detected by X-Ray or CT, that was abnormal, but I did just spend three additional days listening to the hums and beeps of a hospital while slowly losing pieces of my mind all because my number of white cells wasn't inline with what is acceptable. They still aren't, but they are, a bit, lower.

For those that noted I have been M.I.A. from almost all Social Media, this is why. I was in such a funk that I just couldn't bring myself to connect. I had to disassociate myself as to remove the experience from my reality.

To those that forced connections over the last few days, I love you all.

Decompression

I posted the beginning of this, or a version of the beginning of this, yesterday as a #MicroPoetry, but I did not like how the constraints of 140 altered the meaning. I felt it had more to say. So here you go, enjoy!


Decompression

Decompressed
Beneath slate blue sky anointed with jet trails
Concrete river littered with restless red lights

Freedom seekers
Intercepted broken white lines looking for quick escape
Serenity moment lost to timeframe dictation

Old souls
Took deep winter breaths ignored endless rush
Exhaled slowly directing warm air across cracked lips

Aged eyes
Squinted while trying to decipher braided bends
Pulled back slowing rapid river pace

Innocents
Smiled gleefully at extended arms fighting invisible force
Made silly faces reminding onlookers to decompress

Portaits from Lemonheads

By Wednesday, February 1st I will have gone to six shows since Wednesday, January 25th. One of them is my own, but it still counts; right? Everyone knows I see a lot of concerts. It is what I do, but this is a bit much, even for me.

I kicked this string off with Samantha Crain at Off Broadway. I saw Samantha for the first time three years ago, and I have made it a point to see her every time she comes through town. She puts on a great show and is a brilliant songwriter. Friday I headed out to Plush, which is a really cool new venue in town, to check out My Molly. You all know how much I love this band, so I will just stop there. After seeing their set I bounced over to the Firebird to check out Gubenthal. I had a pretty chaotic drive home in the pouring snow-rain-muck that evening, but I made it safely and Saaby only took on one pot hole she should not have.

Last night...last night was the Lemonheads at Old Rock House. If you are a fan of people watching, I HIGHLY recommend checking out a band that is 20 years past their prime. Shows like that bring out the most amazing cross section of fans. You get the diehards that never grew out of the era, the superfans that went to tons of shows back in the day but have since allowed life to consume them, the fans that never got a chance to see them in their hay day but didn't want to miss this opportunity (that is the group I fall in), and even a good selection of kids that weren't even born when the band was big but they heard the legend. I went to the show with a fellow writer. It is always a dangerous situation to be with a fellow writer when people watching is involved, inevitably it becomes less about the show and more about painting the moment. Here are a couple portraits I jotted down. They are kind of #MicroPoetry, but they were too big for Twitter, so I thought I'd just go to the blog with them.

Portraits from Lemonheads

He
With intent eyes
Stares down flat screen flicker
As if he witnessed Jesus
Too awkward to join the masses worshipping at his feet
Too timid to look God in the face

Mom bob
Bops inverse to driving rhythm
Tonight
She revisits youth
Dreams deferred
Tonight
She is 18
Free
Life’s trappings years away from reality
Tonight
She is Mrs. Robinson

This evening, Sunday, January 29th, it is my mid-day show at Broadway Oyster Bar. Definitely one of the coolest venues in the city, and I am covering a full 3 hours (there will be a set break, of course) which is always a fun challenge for me.



I'll end this string of shows on Tuesday, January 31st at the Peabody Opera House watching Ryan Adams and Jason Isbell. Gonna go out on top!

Hope you have been seeing some great music or dance or art...Let me know in the comments below what you have been up to lately. I'd love to know...Eric

Purity's End...

I have become lazy. Seems as though my only poetic thoughts happen in under 140 characters, like I have given in to the ADD that society has forced upon us through 30 second commercials that have us clambering for $5 food we know will kill us one day. Still we hop in cars to drive the same block we would have walked 25 years ago. Make no mistake, growing old sucks, and while I have done my best to embrace the change and continue to chase my youth, I know it is slowly dying too.

There has been so much going on in my world lately that I felt I needed to reconnect with youth, so I started this piece a month or so ago, and I forced it finished today. It is pretty typical Eric poetry, rule driven, fissure surfing. Ultimately I am playing with numbers and words. Seven is my favorite number, so there are seven stanzas. My other favorites make up seven, three and four. I begin with three stanzas of three lines with three words in each, and then transition to four stanzas of 4 lines with 4 words each. At the end, I hope I have something that means something. You can be the judge of that.


Purity’s End

Meet midnight nightly
Surrounded by strangers
Wearing intoxicated smiles

Weathered eyes, tired
Silver and dirt
Replacing youthful sunshine

Boy buried beneath
Callused voice responses
Signifying purity’s end

Paradise lost long before
Drawing purple cloud skies
Exchanged for green grass
Brown tree trunk reality

Thirsty pupils pointed left
Trying desperately to recall
Agendaless days of summer
Play, life’s ultimate apex

Fearless moments of flight
Falling freely from roofs
Too tall for survival
Tennis-shoed feet escape

Glint of excitement returns
Lips curl upward, slightly
Remembering first kiss power
Restoration of innocence lost