i went to a ballet lesson for the first time in years. this time i was 25 and not a teenager. it was in the hall of an old baptist church. there was a mosaic of a saint on the wall but I don't know which one. it was ruby and candy, deep glass colours. the saint appeared to be floating on a cluster of assorted mirrors that were probably spares or unwanted decor from times ago, each a different size and tinge. the mirrors weren't secured to the wall but leaned haphazardly and none of them lined up. they created their own sort of giant mosaic. when we jumped and swept across the floor it was if we had teleported to other realms in each mirror's reflection.
the teacher was a crass man of age. his stained teeth and purpling veins contrasted with his vigor and strength. somehow you could tell he was the kind of person that only cared for dance and nothing else. it was fuck the world, i want to dance. he danced fast and without effort. he told me off twice for pausing in an exercise. the music doesn't stop, he said. so you don't stop either.
i could feel old muscles in my legs, back and my arms all waking up again after years. the smell of dusty floorboards. the barre that had come partially unscrewed from the wall. the reverberation of piano. i felt like a string puppet, reanimated by the quick and sharp notes of the music. i was tugged and stretched across space. count on the beat. catch up to my brain, it urges me to move almost in a panic. more vigor, more speed and more grace. the saint watched wordlessly but watched nonetheless.
