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splinterswerve
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
splinterswerve.hotmail.com
by Michelle Bodnar
A minute ago it occurred to me that there's nothing I shouldn't say. I justify that because at the time I really felt it. I believed from the top of my head to the soles of my calloused dancing feet. Of course, the dimensions of my mind extend far beyond the limitations of my body. A container I am not. I just can’t seem to hold on to things long enough.
During my first years of dancing I performed numbers that had nothing to do with me. My teacher, Sandy, was fond of Barry Manilow, whose generic stylings seem to bode well for a happy future on stage. Throughout those introductory years I was more concerned with how many sequins were on my costumes than the choreography. Later, before I moved, I began feeling like I was dancing in circles, complete with slightly revamped costumes, a newer Barry Manilow song, but with no more convincing steps. Sandy would say, "Lee-lee, if you were just a little more focused you could go anywhere with your dancing." I was trying. I tried and tried, but I could never seem to match my body to her interpretation.
It's first thing in the morning and I'm barely functioning. My stomach is inside out and backwards. Squinting at the clock I try to make out the time. It looks like it could be anywhere between the hours of seven and nine. My glasses aren't where they should be, on the shelf that comprises my headboard, and I begin to search gingerly between the covers, steeling myself for yet another example of a poorly executed evening. Where was I?
No glasses so far.
Is that lucky or unlucky? Don’t want to crush the things.
I probably don't really have to get up.
What do I have to do? I thought I'd practice, that's why the alarm is set, but truth be told I've postponed leaving my bed so frequently in the past few weeks, re-setting the time ahead to “trick” myself, delay, delay, delay, that it could quite possibly be in-between the hours of seven and nine in the evening. I thought I'd practice, but who can practice in such a dump? I mean, really, who can practice? And practice for what? More like exercise, really, which I could use. Although, I've lost a lot of weight since I switched from beer to gin and tonic. I've also lost a sizeable chunk of my intestines.
Last night I gave up ninety percent of myself. Which is funny because the night before that I gave up six thousand percent of myself. All of me. Gone. Over and over. Bits of me can be found in plenty of bars and discarded with the other trash behind several former boyfriend's houses. I've even been flushed down the toilet.
Somehow I get up in the morning, though. People get mad if I'm in a bad mood. More specifically, people get mad if anyone is in a mood. Not popular, moods.
I guess I'm in a mood.
Nobody's up to talk to, anyway. They probably wouldn't tolerate a mood right now. I'm not oblivious to the fact that morning is hard for everyone.
Dull, dreary day, even though it's sunny out.
Mornings make me truthful. I lean my head over on the pillow, move down. Arching my back slowly I crack every bone slowly, all the way up to my jaw. I hope I'm not dead. Did somebody kill me last night? Could somebody turn the lights on in my head? I need some repairs, I think. I'll get a few estimates first, though. A few referrals.
I stretch ... top to bottom. Chiropractors? who needs them, I think as I find my center. Life has been much better since I grabbed my posture back. Sophia Loren, I saw on a Late Night talk show not long ago. Straight as an arrow, she is. I breathe easier with a straight back. My back is only straight when I think I'm on the way somewhere.
Toes first, hands above the head, tuck in your diaphragm, tuck in your back, hold, now hips side to side ...I'm sorted.
Covers over my head.
People eat bugs at night. Mouths wide open, snoring. Noses are fairly safe, but it's rare that I have a clear nose. A sufferer from allergies, I am, at least that’s what I’ve been told. I prefer to think of myself as very selective. A selective smeller.
Last night I... Can't remember.
A pain shoots through me ... head to toe. Memories flood. My mom baking, my brother Jade being funny. How lonely, how lonely I am now.
Footsteps above me. At least they're not mice. I'm coming back. Hot now. Covers down. What time is it?
I squint at the clock again, poke my arm out, wiggle until my torso is off the edge. The blood rushes. No, there's no way I can see the clock unless I get up or find my glasses. If I get that far I might as well go upstairs. I could check the clock in the kitchen. Maybe attempt a conversation.
Covers up.
No bugs, no mice.
Last night I... Got drunk.
DRUNK, I was. Falling-down drunk. Last night I was falling-down drunk.
I'm queasy now, but then I'm queasy every morning. It was fun, it was fun. If I didn't have fun I wouldn't do the things that I do. Fun is for sale. Every night at the local pub. Nobody there will try to make you feel bad for going because they all do the same thing. Misery loves company. At the bar, last night, I was stood up by a complete weirdo jerk, somebody whose heart I was planning on breaking anyway. The fact that he screwed me first troubles me, and I wonder if I'm losing my edge. Better take it easy today, rebuild my resources. There were a lot of people at the bar who understood my plight. Just about everyone, as a matter of fact.
I burrow further underneath the covers. Whatever made me think I should leave?
Sleep is sweaty this time. The day warms but my room remains dark. Dreams are always clearer to me during my wake-up naps. Plots are elaborate, many characters. I wreak vengeance on any who has angered me. My bravery seems so real I long for it, wonder where it's been when I needed it in my most frightening conscious hours. Wonder where I left my strength behind. My father's voice whispers in my head.
"When are you going to learn to take care of yourself?"
A few seconds, hours, milleniums later guilt builds it way into my dreams. My feet kick their way out into the atmosphere. I do like to remain active.
My hangover kicks in.
Wait.
There it is. My stomach groans, then gurgles. Relaxing, I urge myself on. Some Hindus force themselves to puke in the morning. To get rid of bile, the name given to the most disgusting fluid of the body, the one that sits and infects and is carried with its host until they can entice its evils out. Gulping some tepid water from a bottle beside my bed, I sit up. Sure enough, my stomach responds with a great heave and I choke, burping up cigarettes and gin. That's enough to get my gag reflex going and I'm in the bathroom, mostly dry heaving and peeling off the inside layer of what I hope is mostly stuff I didn't need anyway. I am so clever, so highly evolved, I think, catching a glimpse of my red, spotted face wet with tears. I feel better. I control my body. I like to puke.
Another nap is definitely in order.