rehearsal

M.,

just finished. 3 hours rehearsal. my bulerias still sucks. came in too late. came in too early. oh fuck.  the singer looked away. the guitar played on. but my tangos. I hit all my breaks. each time. stronger. & my footwork. contra tiempo. between the beat. perfect.

but that ‘s me isn’t it? always. dancing in that other place. hearing that other groove.

& I remember when you were at Wainwright. you txted me. in th mddle of th f’ing prairie. sun. heat. fake Afghan villages. scaring the shit out of each other. live ammo. (that was the year the British soldier got killed).

and you’d call, pissed, late at night from JR’s. the bar with the all-plastic rule. too many fights. too much broken glass you laughed. all summer you never once asked. if I would. come to you. because you knew I would. and that scared the shit out of you.

you know what M.? before I go on stage. I rehearse every step in my head. every arm. every leg. the curve of my body. the look on my face. & I always lace my shoes. first left. then right. put my makeup on last.

and sometimes it works. and sometimes it doesn’t. and all the rehearsals in the world can’t make it happen. and I just have to keep going. figure out what went wrong.

and this thing between us. whatever it is. this is our rehearsal. and who knows. if all these steps are any good.

but M., I just want to say. to you so far away (from me). when it works. really works. every move. every nuance. every beat. falls into place. the compas, 12//3//6/8/10/12   thrums. beautifully.


S