Post Production Blues

People who work in the theatre, we call this state- the Post Production Blues.

It hits you every time you are done with a performance you have slaved over.

Towards the end of my dancing life- I didn't always get them blues.  But I would feel the same accompanying fatigue.  I think the British word is, knackered.

Post Paris with Bruno, I had the great misfortune of The Root Canal.  For two days, I fed myself chocolate milk and jello, and nursed a sore jaw.

My daughter came home for dinner on Saturday.  Her presence is luminous.  She brought with her, a friend, and one small wish.  Please make me your pasta, Mom, please.  Please cook for me.

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So I went to the store to get stuff, fixed her pasta and more.

Then she got on the night flight.

When she arrived in Singapore, she told her father about the feast she ate with me.  And I think of action words like cut, sliced, scrapped, peeled, pounded, fried, boiled, roasted, mashed, baked.  And I think of an action word, love.

When he called me today, I said I am feeling, unhinged.  And then I say, i can't talk now, I'm boarding a bus.  I am feeling, knackered.  I am feeling weepy.

I think of another action word- climb.  I think, damn it- today under the perfect shelter of clouds and grey, I am going to climb, a hill.

Up and up we go.  Sometimes I am ahead.  Sometimes he leads, and I follow.

When we get to the very top, I can see the city.  The buildings feel near and far, 

More action words- sit, run, dash, fly.

Then there is the healing action of a walk.  I can't sit around feeling sad.  I have to move.  I climb, I walk down, I walk on and on and on.

While walking, I find flowers like music, spilling forth.

Shhh..I hear, a symphony.

And the memory of you, fingers darting with grace across black and white keys, feet tapping.  

If I concentrate hard enough, I know that now, there are faint lines on your face, whispering a story.  All I want is to place my fingers there, and stay for a while, listening.