May 20, 1969
The N.C. Essay
AND WHY DO I DAMCE?
LETTER TO THE EDITOR
I will be free
Peacefully if possible,
Fighting if necessary,
1*/RITER TO SPEAK WED.
(aon’t from pg, 1)
has scaly fingers with bug knuckles,
a farmer's hand. Under my feet,
shoes on the wrong feet as usual,
there are periwinkles of the blue
that I have always searched for in
cloth. Then the scene starts to
move through the dark woods. The
memory of growing up in the South
really begins here because I can
feel being small...
At first, to remember a childhood is
to remember only the hurts; the
sicknesses and the deaths, my grand
parents and my dog. Sickness was a
kind of fear when it brought wild
dreams of being crushed by falling
mountains, but in the daylight it
was being trapped in bed and not al
lowed to go outdoors.
In the South the fall belongs to
the mountains. If the summer is wet
and the forest thickly tangled, the
old men say the colors will be the
best ever; if it is dry, the leaves
will turn brown and fall away or
they will turn so quickly you might
of Life is contained■
compact in the Dance
and the body is
the finest of instruments
for it sounds the soul
- Joy caught voiceless in my throat
carries me surging
in a leap
- I droop down into the
writhe (or shuffle)
of my alone
Spasms of sorrow
in sobbing arms
- I bounce child-high
or stretch cat's legs
in a womans walings
Dance floi'^s from states of being
and I dance my different dances
in expressing a Self
that has no other releasing.
hy Kathy Fitzgerald
Dear Beautiful People, for indeed
you are, thank you for a wonderful
year of excitement, achievement,
laughter, pain and a few tears. It
is really over now; everything draw
ing to a close—for some of us, a
permanent ending—and it is hard to
believe. Only yesterday we fumbled
with each others names, learned
schedules and began a new school
year together. Only yesterday we
were singing Christmas Carols, ap
plauding a concert, laughing to
gether at the Wagon Wheel, the Cur
tain Call, or the Dairy Bar. Only
yesterday we checked our make-up one
last time in the dressing room mir
rors before taking our places behind
the sets of a ballet or drama.
Thank you for all of that.
Now we leave for a while.
Those of us who will return next
fall will deeply miss those of you
who will not be returning. Just re
member that you will always have a
place here—in our hearts and in our
Take with you—all of you—the
memories of this place and of our
days together. They were priceless
times, you know, and because of them
we are a year older—a year wiser.
Think of this place while you
are away this summer. Breathe a
prayer for all it stands for; for
all it could be; for all it has be
come because of people like you.
Never lose track of the friendships,
you made this year, for as time pas
ses , the love deepens and becomes
even more beautiful.
More over, you must not forget
the hurts you suffered here, for
they are as much a part of life as
the easily remembered joys. Because
you suffered, you appreciated the
happy moments even more and made
them last. Now you understand a
little better, the meaning of this
constant struggle called Life.
Leave this place to live, grow,
reflect, remember—and one day,
someday—to return. May God bless
you and keep you in His care until
we meet again. Good bye.
Digging into sand
Squiehing through mud
Tipping through flower gardens
Drawing pictures in wet cement
Happiness is a slightly
Dancing madly with excitement.
Living life as it comes
following the stars.
by Tom Cavano
Into the misty morning day the dewy darling came
with fresh balloons and innocence that never could know shame
And when the blind policemen with their laws and prisons came
She wilted like a dogwood dies, and never knew her name
Into the early afternoon a cynic hot was born
to speak sarcastic epitaphs on children of the mom
and judges in the land blew on their fearful golden horns
And made sure from his mouth his dissillusioned tongue was torn
In the deafness of a night imaginations turned
to a widow of the wood who lived alone and yearned
to sing her life away with ancient melodies she's learned
So her frightened neighbors took her out and had her burned.
Death; a welcomed cold sting,
A relief to misery it doth bring
From this solitude I will gladly part —
Death, cold sting, approach my heart.
Walls of blackness surround me
Visions of happiness too dim to see
Without a door through which I may dart —
Death, cold sting, come take my heart.