Want a Piece of Me?

Dancers dance as a "hobby." Something we do on the side because it supplements our other "tangible" things. Like jobs, or projects, or awards.

But the most excruciating part soul of a dancer's process is the exorcism that happens after each performance. After the curtain closes, there is something that we can never, ever replicate - a creation and a feeling that we can never get back. We leave behind a piece of ourselves - something that now mysteriously belongs to the stage that others will dance on - the stage that other dancers will victoriously lose to.

So when you think that dancing is something fun, make no mistake. It's fun. But remember that there lies a piece of our soul that we give to you, never expecting it to come back. And that feeling, is the realest, most hauntingly tangible, I will ever know.

PPPPPP-Power

Put on the suit and look in the mirror. Feel the power packed into the shoulder-pads, the prestige pressed into the pants. Smile. Pearly whites, perfect tights.

Arrive at The Place. Put your name down and be seated. Eye the parfaits and pulp-free juice as you wait....wait....

Walk in and "have a seat please." Open the padpfolio and read it. Printed words on paper with perfectly sharp corners: "This is what it means to grow up. This is what it means to have power."

Make your journey back. Puff up with pride at your performance. Perhaps you had fooled them. Perhaps there was potential.

Be stopped in your tracks.

Your private cloud 9 was perforated - pricked with the pricks surrounding you.

Hey baby they say. Where you goin precious? I'll let you ride my train to get there.

Pick up the pace. Bitch got places to be? I'll show you a place you ain't never been before.

Pant harder, pant faster. PUSSYASS HOE. COME BACK AND I'LL PUT MY P RIGHT DOWN THAT PRETTY LITTLE THROAT OF YOURS.

Putter back home to your pathetic place of residence. Put your tears back into your pupils.

Peel off the suit, the pants, the pearls.

No one told you this is what it means to have Power.

That this is what it means to be Powerless.

On Death.

Alternate titles include: On things that will make you question the existence of God; On things that don’t hit you until they hit you, or someone you love; On being guilty for being alive.

It’s never fair – ever. No matter which way you slice it, death is death is death, and the dark logic always amounts to zero. And unless you add a 30 to that zero, dark, logic, you never ever want to watch it happen.

I’ve witnessed death twice in my lifetime. The first time, I was young. Not young enough to misunderstand what was going on, but young enough to feel suffocated, like he was. A crowded hospital room. An air that changed - from stories and laughter to wails and screams in the blink of an eye that couldn’t blink; it was glued shut. The Moment was preceded by repetitive breaths. His head laid to the side, profile facing us. It moved up and down on the pillow, in rhythm with each inhale, exhale. The Last Breath was slow, like a graceful release of the poisonous cells that ruined him. There was silence.

The second time, I was older. It was cold and it was Christmas. I knew the ropes. I was expectant and ready. I wore red and green. But The Moments Before threw me, and screwed me. It was different this time. More people, more chaos. Red eyes, shaky fingers, sweaty foreheads circled around her. Tongues flapped incessantly and heat stuck to the air. I was older. I was guilty. I leaned into her ear and whispered I’m sorry. The Last Breath was quick, like a hasty escape from the dreadful caroling surrounding her. The screams continued.

This is death. Memories that can only be seen with the haze of an eye filled to the brim. Two stories tied together with this one, hideous black ribbon. I wrap them up, and tuck them away. They stay there, side by side, in a nook of my memory that collects dust until summoned.

“The doctors say there are only 24 hours left.”

I say nothing.

I blow off the dust.

I slowly untie the grainy black ribbon.

I see them, waiting to greet me with their pointed faces and maniacal grins.

Hello, I say.

I wait.

Stranger Danger

I knew a place once.

I met a lady there - on a bus that she gracefully helped me find. She had a squinty smile with a pure heart,  always looking to talk to people. I mean, really talk to people and get to know what makes them tick. She was small, she was adorably uncomfortable, but her curiosity is what stuck. It's what made her tick. Como se llama? "Chakti" she'd say, "Shakti," I'd smile.

I met a man there - on a train that I'd not so gracefully found. He had tall limbs and wise eyes that were rested on this new place he called home. He started life fresh with an optimism that made me question how a former lawyer could become so zen. His empathy was overwhelming, his calming aura infective.

I met people who weren't afraid to talk to people they didn't know. They were open, and free, and loving. They were funny, funky, and fresh. It was a place that was theirs, now is mine, because they let me learn it. They let me say, I know that place.

I want this place, right here, to be a place I know, surrounded with people I don't.

RIP Harsha Maddula

People tell me things that shouldn't effect me, shouldn't effect me. I'm so disconnected, why does it matter and why am I upset and calm down!

But I can't. Because how dare I go through the motions of life, being unaffected by every joy, every tragedy, every commonplace thing that happens to everyone outside of me?

How dare I live, oblivious to the way a mother feels when she holds that cooing baby in her arms, the first time their fingers meet and the first time those wide eyes smile?

How dare I live, oblivious to the possibility that it could have been ME goddamit who got killed for no reason who got thrown into that river who got no explanations for why my brother is DEAD.

How dare I live, in any way other than to the fullest? How dare I assume I'll have time to do something great tomorrow? How dare I make myself feel better with these lies, make excuses for my faults, find ways out of doing the hardest thing but the only thing to do which is LIVE.

How dare I see these joys, these tragedies, over and over and over again and not once put myself in those shoes. Not once pretend it's happening to me. Not once think - shit, that can still be me.

No. Don't tell me it's distant. Don't tell me it's unlikely. Don't feed me the shit I already feed myself to feel less crazy because it's here. It's close and it's breathing down my neck. It's death whispering warnings in my ear - how dare I refuse to listen.

My One True Love: Thought Catalog

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/youre-alone-all-the-time/

Just Me & the Girls

People struggle with their body image everyday. Too fat, too thin, too this too that. But my sympathy goes out to ma people - the big boobed - and our specific struggle with this so-called "gift."

When I was younger, I was told to do weird arm exercises in attempts to reduce my bra size. Mind you, I am by no means enormous - but I remember my chest being compared to a curse that I'd be damned with for all of eternity, unless I got the Girls under control.

Obviously that never worked. And I was okay with this, because despite the ominous warning, at that blissful time in my life boobs were not all the rage for girls and guys alike. I'd wear tank tops and dresses and the only decision I had to make before buying a shirt was which shade of blue to buy it in. (My wardrobe was very diverse).

And then I grew up, and something changed. My body, the most consistent part of my life, had suddenly been redefined. Everything I wore was scandalous, promiscuous, indecent. If I bent over and my shirt shifted, I was yelled at. If a picture was taken and my cleavage was visible, I was teased. It was like an obsession over this one part of my body, and the unwanted attention was stifling. I became accustomed to slyly erasing any trace of sensuality - "for the sake" of everyone around me.

But you know what? I'm done feeling guilty, or dirty, or whatever else these comments are meant to make me feel. Fuck. All. Of Y'all. We teach girls to be comfortable with their bodies, and to love the skin they're in. We fight the shame that women shouldn't feel for showing their curves, because it is not their responsibility to control the urges of a leering man. We chant these apparently empty mottos, and I'm tired of the hollow sound. This is not the 1800's, people, it's time for a damned shift in perspective.

The hypocrisy echoes to the beaches - where it's acceptable to dress in the equivalent of a bra and panties. It echoes to the Indian weddings - where the norm is to show an entirely bare stomach. Hello, moral relativism, how do you do?

So please, if you are not going to be consistent, then kindly leave me and my body alone. And if you still don't understand, then I hope that one day you are blessed with a big-boobed daughter. And I hope that she fights just as hard as I do. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, she will get the privilege to walk down the street in a tank top and flip-fops, feeling like nothing but a regular pedestrian.