But never, never on a Sunday
A Sunday, a Sunday, ’cause that’s my day of rest
Most any day you can be my guest
Any day you say, but my day of rest
Just name the day that you like the best
Only stay away on my day of rest
Oh, you can kiss me on a cool day, a hot day
A wet day, which everyone you choose
Sunday feels weird without a Hot Chocolate gig. They are still bedding in their new lead trumpet player.
Literally, I think. She’s pretty hot.
I could have gone to watch and maybe even sit in, but that’s not fair to her, so I’m home alone, binge listening to Peter Gabriel live concerts.
Akira finally broke her silence yesterday morning. What I had guessed was all true. She wants me to contact Pagan for her. That’s a bad idea. Perhaps it is better that I call him, than for her to have to listen to his pathetic response. This isn’t the first time. As someone who practices sex magic, it is bound to happen if the woman isn’t careful. I’m surprised it never happened to me with the prodigious amount of sex we’ve had over the years.
Aoki isn’t happy. She thinks that Akira should get rid of it. I don’t know what Asami thinks. We haven’t spoken.
Don’t give up,
don’t give up,
don’t give up.
It’s a lost cause. Sometimes I feel Akira is a better best friend. Even when she is mad at me, she still talks, and we work it out.
Why am I obsessed with Peter Gabriel today?
I’m avoiding listening to the recording from Friday night. Last night, Jackson told me that he records all our gigs at Jimmy’s in case there is magic. In his opinion, that’s what happened Friday night. He said he had visions of Keith Jarrett’s Köln concert, the greatest live jazz recording ever. He wants to make a name for himself and thinks our concert recording is the means towards that end.
My bedroom window doesn’t have the same view as the 17th floor hotel, but at least there are no distractions, at least not in the winter. Sometimes in the summer my neighbor has noisy sex with her windows open. I seem to be plagued by neighbors who aren’t quiet about sex. My house doesn’t have much of a view at all. There is a tree in front that blocks the view for half the year, and it’s bleak the rest of the year. I don’t stand in front of it nude, since the streetlight would reveal me in the night.
The witching hour is approaching. I’m in my pj’s ready to dream.
You know we can talk anytime, don’t you?
Yes, but this seems to be when you take me somewhere to teach me something. Isn’t that so?
You could take me somewhere.
There’s a thought.
If I go to “somewhen”, do I go to whomever I am in that era?
If you want to.
Can I go to the premiere of the Rite of Spring?
Interesting choice. Go ahead. Take us. Don’t think about how. Just do it.
I’m backstage. Whatever you do keep dancing, he says. Shit, I’m one of the dancers. What do I do?
You’ve seen the Joffrey reconstruction. You know how it goes.
I was eight at the time, but I’m not a dancer.
But you are now, and you’re the Prima ballerina. Your body can do it, just remember.
I look like me, but with dark hair. I’m wearing a peasant costume with ye olde-fashioned tights underneath. It isn’t particularly comfortable. The conductor enters the pit. The crowd is noisy already. The lights dim. The bassoon solo begins. Somebody is throwing things, shouting. Keep going, Njinsky shouts, although the dancing hasn’t yet begun. Stravinsky is standing next to him. He looks at me. He recognizes me, cocks his head, raises an eyebrow, as if to say, you can dance, too? He’s seen this body dance, but he senses that I am visiting him from the future.
Was I this person in 1913?
Wait, didn’t she die in 1978?
Yes. You were her, Tamara Karsavina, just before you became you.
Tammy was her husband? She took my name? Which husband?
Second. Pay attention. Positions. The curtain is about to go up.
She was, too. This wasn’t an ordinary premiere. You know every note of the music, and she knows the choreography, just follow her.
Curtain. The movements are awkward by design, bouncing, jumping, leaning. The old hag rumbles around. The music is hard-edged, the orchestration is slightly different than I am used to. I know a later version. The instruments aren’t as modern: reedy bassoons, piston horns. I let Tamara lead me through. She is very athletic. The dance is quite taxing.
Njinsky shouts the counts from offstage and pounds his walking stick to the beat. We can’t hear much of the orchestra. One, two, three, one, two, one, two. It’s second nature to my modern ears, but Tamara is used to counting eights. I can help her audiate the music.
Hear it even when the rioters are too noisy. It’s all in my head. I can even visualize the dance. Does she know I am here?
You and she are one. She shares her knowledge of French and Russian with you, as you share your English with her. Hers isn’t very good yet. She doesn’t meet her Englishman for a few years.
But I don’t hear any Russian.
She translates it for you. Let her dance.
I’m chosen. Now it gets interesting, and more difficult. The violence of the music increases, and I can hear it over the riot. Breathing heavily now. I’m not sure I can make it to the end.
It’s a dance to the death. Don’t forget.
I’m really exhausted. I feel like I’m about to keel over. I can’t believe she lives for another 65 years.
She was in great shape.
We dance, jump float, we are cornered, we dance more, keep going. I can’t. I must. I know she does, but I … there, it’s the end. I collapse. I can’t get up. Marie helps me up. That’s Marie Rambert. I’ve seen films of Ballet Rambert. She soon became a legend.
We stumble through curtain calls, Njinsky embraces me. Stravinsky is upset. I think he left during the performance, but he must have returned. Legend says he didn’t return. Have I just changed history. Ripples?
The legend isn’t very clear. I don’t expect any significant ripples.
We are in the void now. It’s best not to temp fate. I’m still tired, though. Oddly, I feel more comfortable now, undressed, standing across from myself. What did I learn from this? Is the tiredness significant? Or the ripples?
She looks at me and gives me that same sly look Stravinsky gave me.
I didn’t change the past. The past changed around me. My presence was enough to change it.