Press play before you begin. Katherine recommends Ständchen, S. 560—and we think she's right. [LINK]
I would sacrifice my body to swim amongst swans.
Today I found myself looking at a lake. Actually, I’m looking into it now. I go to touch the water, the tips of my fingers instantly feel the floor. I retract my hand in disturbance and disappointment, some kind of reflex to the illusion of its depth.
From further away the lake appears as a beautiful backdrop, cinematic, lush and serene, you could assume a certain depth to match its vastness but I was yet to witness one person ever dive in, swim, and bask in its glory. Until this day that had always confused me.
I’d always thought to myself that I might be the exception. I romanticised acts of defiance and fantasised the moment I might one day be submerged in its waters. Sink or swim, I was willing to sacrifice my body should this grant the opportunity to swim amongst swans.
I was determined to know its depths as I fantasised from afar the moment I would meet these waters, but how ironic it is to swim without a body.
In my efforts to fuck around and find out how I might get there, I thought I’d try to what I do best and dance. But I danced for so long, and despite all this movement, I was somehow standing still or at least spinning around in the same spot. I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t get off the stage or out of this music box. I heard the same songs for years.
I soon learned that no number of pirouettes around a pole or in a pointe shoe would bring me closer to the glorified baptism. I tried so hard, for so long to find meaning through pointed toes and pursuit.
My hand braces around a vertical, brass pole when the sky is dark. My skin hued pink, purple, and hazy under the lights; music blaring and thudding under feet that levitate seven inches closer to God, or sometimes closer to the feeling of being one. I would dance for so long on these stages, infinite nights that left me disillusioned. Not that different to the hypnotic stares from eyes that graze these stages, I too am fooled by the illusions I create on them. How could I blame them, how could I blame me? How fascinating to be moving and yet be so still, simultaneously. Anchored in place by steel, anchored by the uncertainty and fear of letting go.
May this dance lead me to a stage that I might one day truly shine under, stages that substitute cash, mild insults, and perverted commentary for roses, endorphins, and applause.
For now and until then, these stages will suffice, I thought.
To be someone’s dream at night so I could live my own by day. It all made sense at the time.
My hand graces along a horizontal, wooden pole when the sky is light. My skin dripping in sweat to the sounds of classical piano, my heart thudding in my chest as I stand on the tips of my toes and closer to heaven, or sometimes the desire to be there as I attempt to achieve a level of perfection only God can satisfy. I would dance for so long in these studios, infinite days that left me misguided. No different to the bodies funded by their parents to dance in these studios, I too am fooled by the narrative that working yourself to the bone is the ultimate gateway to success. How could I blame them, how could I blame me? How fascinating to be wearing pink tights under fluorescent lights and scrutinising eyes, pondering the prospect that maybe her dad was partly funding my tuition on the weekend.
May this dance lead me to a stage that I might truly shine under, stages that substitute personal and financial insecurity, carrot and celery sticks for fulfillment, a sense of purpose and belonging. For now and until then, these studios will suffice, I thought.
To live my dream by day, I became someone else’s at night. It all made sense at the time.
For almost a decade I would find myself dancing under the lighting of the moon and the sun.
I danced for so long, yet somehow, I was still in the same spot, spinning around, dizzy from a lack of direction, probably a lack of food, from drinks and some substances more sinister. I couldn’t leave, I stayed spinning under dimmed lights and pink tights. I stayed spinning around dreams of one day diving into this lake, an ugly duckling in her pending rite of passage to swim amongst swans.
One night I recall the feeling of the bass under my feet, the next day I recall the feeling of the thudding in my chest. The noise became so incessant to a point I could no longer ignore, years of hearing the same songs had finally manifested in my lower back, my knees, my feet and brain. Louder than the music was my body screaming for respite, redemption, and return.
I was spinning around dreams of one day diving into this lake, deafened by the sounds of distraction, denial, doubt and fear. I stayed here, moving fast but still in one spot.
And though I stayed in the dream, my body had woken to screams that begged me to stop spinning. The body that would allow me to stand on the tips of my toes, the very toes I would bend over and touch for strangers, the body that might one day meet a beautiful lake to swim in.
The lake of swans is a beautiful fantasy, one that drove me to levels of delusion, my body at its hands willing and ready. I spent years embodying a sacrificial lamb. Today, there are nights before I fall asleep that I can feel my two big toes thudding with pain for minutes at a time. I’m woken just before I enter a dream—quite literally a painful reminder of the ways I have used, and likely abused my body in the hopes I might swim in my wet dream. My left knee has accomplished a milestone decade in feeling memories of the past of which I now receive daily reminders of. Some days and some nights when my body explores the historical archives, I’m reminded of its fragility, of my soul’s vulnerability and sometimes my mortality. I’m also reminded that I should probably see my physio again.
Today, I found myself looking at a lake. I go down to touch the water; the tips of my fingers instantly meet the floor. I recall this feeling, my hand has met this depth before. It looks a lot different though to the one I once observed at a distance, a beauty I would awe at, that lured me in, manipulated me, seduced me into a dance. I bought it, the dance to experience her up close and more intimate now. But upon arrival it does not at all feel like destiny, any anticipated feelings of glory, relief and satisfaction are replaced with disappointment and underwhelm. I greet the lake with one hand in acceptance and another in complete denial that this is where I am meant to be.
Today, I found myself looking at a lake. Actually, I’m looking into it now. I go down to touch the water by which the tips of my fingers instantly meet the floor. But this time I didn't retract my hand, this time I continued searching for somewhere deeper.
And though I didn’t find what I was looking for, in the process of doing so, I witnessed that within the water’s reflection. An illusion that once deceived me and left me disappointed became a metaphor for the possibility that perhaps this lake contains a depth that, had I not continued searching, I would never have found.
Katherine Lanterna @ballet_school_dropout
Photo Credits:
Claire Wakeford, Harry Burmeister
Digital Editor—Kathe Pouli