I'm a dexterous girl. Years of ballet does not lend to a lady who trips and falls. Quite the opposite, my thin, perfectly formed ankles have served years of training to do exactly but lose their balance and if I were to fall, say to trip over several taught, displaced, knotted and runaway threads with minds of their own, that's right, you know exactly what it would mean. Not my fault. As a child I was never allowed to dress casually to my ballet classes. We wore a uniform color leotard, same in shape, cut and all. We could have not a strand of hair hanging down, so I invested in these medieval bun holders that encased your hair, once it had become a circle the size of a dinner roll and slid a metal rod through it, something like a needle piercing straight through the heart of the wicked witch in a movie or the book your mother just read. It was that scary and that violent.
But the bun holder never failed me, but they also never provided me with the look that the principal dancers dawned as they worked to perfect their next performances behind closed doors with windows in them with my face stuck to the glass. What mesmerized me the most was how ragged the clothing was. The men's t-shirts torn all over, the womens' leg warmers reaching as high as their wastes and just riddled with holes. I admired each hole. Stared them each down until I had a story for how they had all come into being. The pirouette, the leap where her partners hand were so strong the eventually wore through her fabric to the actual skin that brought her there, not only to America, or to the Hartford Ballet Company but to the hands of a man who walked and moved like God had wanted us to move, with grace and gratitude for these forms of sheer beauty and power. Our legs weren't legs, they were fourty pound pieces of armor making up the ultimate man, and the woman he caught was, I believed, more beautiful in her torn and broken clothing than she would ever look in something new. And so I now crochet. It's no wonder. As soon as it's a bit too cold for just a t-shirt, I find the right colors and don't stop until it's almost timet to get up for work. I can't stop because it's too important, too beautiful and too gratifying. All of these elaborate pieces of soft hand work so lovely and so full of holes so that if you really look, you can see anything beneath the yarn, anything, from a collar bone to a bra strap to a nipple even and that you can only barely see it and even then probably not, makes it all the worth while. Of course most of my friends have been given long, thick, infinity shawls crocheted from both the softed fabrics I could find and the best colors for their hair and skin. Instead of a sweater, I encourage them to wrap these scarves around them until they are warm enough to be happy and mobile enough to dance to swan lake. Or Wiz Kahlifa. I suppose he was the last thing we really stayed up all night to. ed, many shaped forms of alpaca, acrylic, nylon what have yous that are strewn from room to chair to coffee mug to dog, then I would be so deeply disappointed in myself that I would probably never clean the yarn up a bit even. If anything I would create more trip wire, red light style lines througout my living space making it more difficult to traverse the kitchen than a vietnam swamp ticking with land mines, because, as I mentioned, I studied ballet. This means, in the even that you did not, that you do not fall. Perhaps when attempting a new choreography with a partner who is able to catch you like the wind catches a feather, but walking, to fall walking, well you will never hear your instructors last word of it. Sure he passed away ten or more years ago, no excuse. You failed at carrying the human form god gave to you, rather than several other girls who growing up would have sawed it off right while you were sleeping if it meant that they could traverse from rooms with it. What is my point with all of this? Crochet something beautiful and as messy as it gets, don't fall like a big-boned Russian weight trainer. Move through the thread, weave about it and then weave it together the way the dancers wore woven leg warmers and head wraps while they moved in the air of the place and while you watched, and learned.