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346 pages, Paperback
First published September 27, 1976
Shit. I’d danced right through the broken glass, in my bare feet too. Some butterfly. I limped into the main room, trailing bloody footprints and looking for a towel. I washed my feet in the bathtub, the soles looked as if they’d been minced. The real red shoes, the feet punished for dancing. You could dance, or you could have the love of a good man. But you were afraid to dance, because you had this unnatural fear that if you danced they’d cut your feet off so you wouldn’t be able to dance. Finally you overcame your fear and danced, and they cut your feet off. The good man went away too, because you wanted to dance.
But I chose the love. I wanted the good man; why wasn’t that the right choice? I was never a dancing girl anyway. A bear in an arena only appears to dance, really it’s on it’s hind legs trying to avoid the arrows.
Where was the new life I’d intended to step into, easily as crossing a river? It hadn’t materialized, and the old life went on without me. I was caged on my balcony waiting to change. I should take up a hobby, I thought, make quilts, grow plants, collect stamps. I should relax and be a tourist, a predatory female tourist and take pictures and pick up lovers with pink nylon ties and pointy shoes. I wanted to unclench myself, soak in the atmosphere, lie back and eat all the flapdoodles off the tree of life, but somehow I couldn’t do it. I was waiting for something to happen, the next turn of events (a circle? a spiral?) All my life I’d been hooked on plots.
"Now I wanted to be acknowledged, but I feared it."