Fraggle Dancer

I must admit something to you all.

I dance like a fraggle.



















And I love it.

I ask you, is there shame in waiving your hands in the air and letting your arms flop about like pieces of silly string?

Is it wrong to hop from one foot to the other with no coordination, in fits of giggles and peels of laughter?

Is it wrong to romp about as though you were a 5-year-old?

No, I say!

It's not wrong at all!

It is glorious.

It is freeing.

It is complete and utter joy.

It is a feeling of comfort in your own spirit and loving your place in time.

It is a divine respect for the child in your soul who dances with a piece of watermelon in one hand and a jump rope in the other, with a Slip'n Slide in her heart and a pack of Twizzlers in the front zipper of her backpack.

Some may waltz, some may disco, some may pop it and lock it.

I say 'fraggle.'

It is my dance of choice at weddings.

When the music makes you smile and you are feeling sublime, dance like a child.

Dance like you don't care what anyone else thinks about you.

People will look.

People may point to you and whisper to their friends.

But they will all be wishing they were having as much fun as you.

My name is Katherine Schwartz.

And I'm a fraggle dancer.

Joy Chronicles Part III

Infinite joy.

There are small things that make you smile.

Singing in the shower and realizing you've put on a concert for your roommates in the early A.M. hours.

Walking outside and smelling glorious fresh rain first thing in the morning.

Dry cleaner ladies who are intrinsically endearing and cheerful.

Sundresses billowing in the wind so that you have multiple Marilyn Monroe moments.

Medium brown hair turning light brown from just the touch of the sun.

Childhood memories of campfires and the arts and crafts cabin when you smell burning leaves or lilac blooms.

Finding unknown bursts of nature in your very own city, secret gardens and hidden trails, yellow daffodils and lakeside wonders.

Ice cream on a hot but not too hot day.

Flasks and pillows and grown up furniture proving that you are still a child trying to be an adult still trying to be a child...

Free samples of tea of from the Argo lady in the loop when you have no water with which to quench your thirst.

Developing missing rolls of film from years ago and delighting in sweet and mysterious pictures from your past.

Realizing family members are 99 about to turn 100...

Taking moments to find the small things.
And then smiling at these small moments.
That is our life.
And it is joyful.

Cheerios

It smells like Cheerios.

The aroma hits me out of the blue and suddenly I am whisked back to childhood breakfasts at the kitchen table in the early morning, my father encouraging my sister and I to eat faster so we wouldn't be late for school. I remember wishing I had been allowed to eat sugar-coated cereals like Frosted Mini Wheats or Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Cocoa Puffs. How silly it had been to wish for such sweet diabetes-inducing treats. We would never be allowed to eat these for breakfast.

No, it was always Cheerios.

Or Corn Flakes.

Or Rice Krispies.

But I am not smelling Rice Krispies, I am smelling Cheerios.

Cheerios makes me think of childhood. There is something in its simplicity that is innocent and pure and calm. Cheerios takes me back to a million of other memories. Waiting for the bus at the corner with my sister, playing "Restaurant" in the kitchen and serving "power leaves" (letttuce) to all of the invisible customers, riding bikes irresponsibly and falling off of them during Block Parties and scarring your upper lip right before camp so that a giant scab exists for all the other ten-year-olds to look at and wonder if it is really a booger or some weird deformity...

And though Cheerios reminds me of my childhood, it remains an adult choice. I often think to myself, "What I wouldn't give to sit on the porch in the morning and eat a bowl of Cheerios as the sun makes its way into the sky." I dream of purchasing a bistro set for this very reason. To sit in simplicity. To have calm. To eat whole grains and soak in the sun. To remember a time when everything was unsure and beautiful and sweet and innocent.

I look out the window and watch trees and pastures roll by, and I realize the aroma of Cheerios has left the air, but I will hold these sweet memories close forever.

Doll Spider

she is a marionette
caught in her own strings.

strings she thought did not exist.

she is a black widow spider who has bitten
herself by mistake.

and she struggles in vain
expiring slowly
trapped in her own naive webbing.

doll spider.

her bite would kill you
but her heart will kill her
first.

ethereal light
masquerading as darkness
sweet and venomous
smudged paint drips off her
hollow wooden cheeks

her tired blurry eyes look
downward.

she told the fly she was free
but she forgot
the wood carver sewed strings
purposely
into her heart.

she spins the tarantella with fire
but a faulty cable in her soul
steals her word.

fishnet and wire and yarn
dance in her eyelashes
she thrashes violently
wearily
held hostage in this red dance that
never seems to cease
heavy with broken limbs
and tattered visions
gnawing,
grabbing,
screaming at the
razor blade strings
that exhaust her
consume her
deny her
destroy her




she sits to rest a while





and as she lays there
twisted and mangled
like a princess seduced into war
she hears a far away lullaby
calling from within her like a
queen's distorted battle cry
power stirs
her bruised brittle heart.

she feels
beautiful
once again.

and she calmly starts spinning a
hushed quiet waltz.


she doesn't remember it always starts this way.

the handsome flies look on
and smirk at her

they never go hungry

flies know
doll spiders
always drown in their own
sweet poison.