I would like to begin again

Dear Reader,

I would like to begin again, with you. I would like to invite you in. I would like to invite you into my home. I would like to make a disclaimer. I am regretful to tell you that to enter my home you will need to take your shoes off. I would like to say sorry for this. I would like to say sorry for this because I really like your shoes, and I like shoes in general and I would like to say sorry because I don’t always take off my own shoes even though I should. I would like to unlock this gate. I would like to unlock this white gate but I don’t remember the code on the padlock. I would like to think it’s 007 but I can’t be sure. I would like to assure you that it doesn’t really matter because I have my own set of keys on a red tag with a silver whistle. I would like to walk behind you as you enter. I would like to put our shoes neatly on the shoe rack. I would like to point out the numerous outdated flyers on the noticeboard and to tell you that I am thinking of creating a public artwork called NOTICE/BOARD. I would like to clear all the flyers from this corridor and these boards and leave only this note for you all folded up and neatly pinned. I would like to you to have discovered it when you least expect it, a small and yet big surprise. I would like to regretfully acknowledge that no one leaves notes for each other anymore. I would like to ask you if you ever passed a note secretly at school, or later in life in a meeting? I would like you to ask what you wrote. I would love to have told you what I wrote but I can’t remember. No, really I cannot. I would like to invite you to put your bag down on any one of these wooden chairs by the door. I would like to walk with you around the studio floor. I would like to point out the two bathrooms, and the kitchen behind the black curtain. I would like to give you a glass of water. I would like to stand on the chair while you hand me the long black lighter and wait with me while I light the old gas heaters. I would like to lie beneath one of these heaters with you and listen to the falling rain for a long long time. I would like to roll with you, turn with you, rise with you, stand with you, walk with you, run with you, fall with you, bend with you, receive with you, hold with you, dance with you. I would like to walk up the white staircase with you and take a moment to look at our reflections in the cast iron mirror hanging on the hook outside the door. I would like to open the door of the room where I live and invite you in. I would like you to sit on one of the hand carved chairs my mother shipped from our childhood home in Colombo to our new home in Melbourne in 1984. I would like to put the kitchen light on but I know that if I put that light on and the kettle on at the same time it will blow a fuse. I would like to play you some of my favourite piano music. I would like to sit on the lounge chair with you and talk about how the plants in this room are thriving against all odds. I would like to smell with you the lemon-geranium I took from the neighbours garden to make last night’s bedtime tea. I would like to show you the hole under the pillar where I twice saw a mouse run in and out, in and out. I would like to know if it was the same mouse. I would like to smile here with you. I would like to listen here with you. I would like to drink whiskey, make some plans, spin some cotton into gold in this room with you. I would like to tell you how I came to live here, in a dance studio. I would like you to know that last year someone was murdered not far from here. I would like to show you the syringe I nearly stepped on when I stopped on my walk to tie up my shoe laces. I would like to tell you that walking home late last night I nearly bumped into a man rummaging through the garbage bags left outside the Salvation Army store. I would like to admit how little I know this neighbourhood, how I circle outside on Friday nights waiting for the five rhythms class to finish. I would like to say that living above a dance studio is a continual process of becoming. I would like to think that this very living is an act of dancing. I would like to know if you are dancing now. I would like to think that I am dancing now. I would like you to write something on my body, a kind of impermanent tattoo. I would like you to write each now becomes another now. Yes, and I would like you to write I write because I don’t trust myself to remember. Yes, and I would like you to write  after, across, between, until. Yes, and I would like you to write, she is wearing red lipstick, her hair is up.

 

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