Play With Structure.

Poetry is my new toy. I’ve never played freely with words…as a married person.

I like being married, by the way. The structure is important, but it can be uncompromising if I don’t shake things up to keep him relaxed. It goes against my values to do that — to shake him up. To press my agenda. To try to change someone. But the therapist said it’s necessary if we’ll ever dance again.

I’m holding a balanced position. It takes a willingness to readjust my stance. I don’t think he’s ever taken a dance class. I might be standing on one foot for a while.

…

When I was a five, I was a made into a ballerina. Because of my “purist foundation,” it took me years to master the art of relaxing my body.

Ballet didn’t help you feel your body? Please tell me you’re joking.

Classical music is sharp. Even when it’s fluid, it’s not liquified. The structure is always there; it demands obedience. Prior to age 22 — prior to leaving the church — I was rigid in hip-hop class. My movements were stiff and precise. Ballet is a metal rod jammed up the spine. It controlling. Imagine a push-button robot trying to move with the ocean.

When it comes to traditional pointe, French choreography is the law. Every extension of every step has a proper form and a proper name. “First position. Fifth position. Arabesque. Jete Battu.” The law is timeless; it never changes. Strict adherence is enforced with the unspoken threat of abandonment. Mannequins are expendable, after all. Stay in the lines. Don’t get passed up for having gained five pounds. Don’t age, you plastic virgin. Don’t stop smiling, you dumb bitch.

Ballet reminds me of my old religion. And my mom. And really bad sex. It’s corporate. Rich people love the ballet. Theaters were built for the elites. The anorexics. Anorectic people are judgey.

I know — I used to be one.

If you watch a line of ballet dancers, they should mirror each other perfectly. They should be so articulately synthesized that one of them is all of them. They don’t dance with the music, they dance for the music.

It’s beautiful and sad at the same time.

Rap, on the other hand, opposes everything…rhythmically. Sure, it has structure. It has beats. But we dance with our shoulders instead of our arms. We swim with our hips instead of our feet. We let the background tempo guide the circular flow of our obliques. We trust the base instead of submitting to the violin. We release the tension in our necks.

When it comes to Hip Hop, choreography is simply a guide to keep the group in sync. Steps don’t have fancy names and dogmatic forms. They have messy, minimalistic descriptions that match the temperature of the class. “Move left. Reach right. Turn around.” General adherence to the collective vibe is nothing more than a courtesy. Structure exists to prevent dangerous run ins and black eyes. Don’t shove me into the wall, you narcissistic cunt. Sorry, I love you, Girlfriend…now get out of the way, you dumb bitch.

Modern dance reminds me of the creative co-op spaces downtown. And my soul. And really good sex. The dancing is dirty. Hoodrats love the grimy Hollywood studios. They were built for humans. The indulgents. Indulgent people are shameless.

I know — I used to be one.

Deja vu, huh?

If you watch a group of Lyrical, Burlesque, or Hip Hop groupies, each dancer brings their own flavor to the floor. Our bodies are self-governing agents of artistic expression. We don’t listen to the music, we become the music.

It’s beautiful and free at the same time.

…

Poetry is my new toy. I woke up one day and realized my words don’t have to be a ballet of rhymes. The whole thing can be Northside improv if I feel like it. It might look like shit, but it’s nice to feel alive.

I have a dance partner at home. I forget I have to take the lead even though I’m tired. Even though I’m the dame. It’s against the rules, but he has too many anyway. It’s probably time to start breaking them. We’ll see if he can follow me. Swinging is hard for beginners.

Baby, if you’re gonna be a ballerina forever, I’m gonna go dancing with the girls. At least one girl. At least one time. And it’s not gonna be cheating because I’m telling you. She can join us for all I care. I just need some some new music. Beethoven is killing me. So rape me already, huh? Know I want to fuck you. Stop being shy.

Say what you mean and mean what you say. I did.

Let’s see if the record keeps skipping. Let’s see if he’ll listen to rap or go to a strip club. Let’s see if he can undress me the way he undresses Morgan with his eyes. As a friend of mine might say, “let’s see if I can turn this corporate executive into a poet.” Let’s see if I’m actually that powerful…

…Let’s see if he leaves town for a month because I spoke my Truth and became the aggressor.

Don’t give up too soon, the therapist says. She knows I don’t want to divorce. She knows I still need to heal. She loves I love him. Stop resisting what isn’t, my entire spiritual philosophy says. It knows I don’t want to force solutions. It knows I need to see color. I knows I love living.

Alright, then. Hold your center, Rach. Tighten your abdominals. Use patterned breathing. Keep the eight-count steady and use your arms for balance.

I’ll give it one more shot before I rip the hook out of my face. Nine months? It sounds reasonable. Nine months to be totally committed. Nine months to see who’s born. Nine months to heal my heart, expel the past, and watch the new release play out. Nine more months of dancing with myself while I wait to find out the sex of my babe.

Hey Rachel, be compassionate. Be realistic. Remember, they wear tightly wound buns. It can take years for them to let their hair down.

I know — I used to wear one.