“What thou lov’st well remains, the rest is dross
What thou lov’st well cannot be reft from thee”
What is it that makes the memory of one rainy day in June —
a toxic “park” down by the sugar factory —
makes it so vivid now
he came up and said, “i am so sick, i tell you whut”
and i said i’ll take you home just follow me down here
and when i am dancing, holding on to shape and line, lifting through one tendu then one degage
this memory returns to my body
and then i see rama and sita
and my feet are lifted then too and i come to in a moment
another life i had
a “summer of” as it wuz
the memory of your afternoon silence
on the day we had disappeared completely
and you wouldn’t speak anymore
now you know that you were thinking “whatever happens, this is.”
and i was already a ghost
and these days i move though greyer streets than home
i think of India, a big wave
Brett’s cigarette butts in the hotel drawer
Perestroika for Young Audiences
what is and is not property, “yo quiero mucho”
and i almost fall off the barre.
i so want to fall off the barre.
still tucked inside, the eidolons of mango honey
I’m in the booth at the Triple Door, looking down on pools of light that i’m using to paint the stage. New York City told me to be a stagehand, not a dancer. Seattle tells me that I make a better dancer than a stagehand. Toe-hangs from a truss, wrench in one hand, gel frame in the other? Anything to feed my addiction to heights, to get above the crowd….
Beginnings….are not my forte. if anything, i start with the end and work my way backwards. the last thing is what i usually remember the most, so i feel it deserves extra special attention. would that explain my preoccupation with death? hmmmm….anyways, I’m glad the beginning is behind us and we are marching full-steam ahead into the meat of our process.
Working for other’s projects began to feel like compulsively collecting experience, consuming rather than creating. Procrastinating by filling every last minute being dedicated to someone else. There were many lessons and rewards that came from that, but as the clock ticktocked away, i realized that postmodern circus was the thing that i wanted to pour my energy into.
I like to choreograph movement phrases in public spaces, away from the pressure of the studio and the mirrors flinging my distortion back at me. Seattle Center skate park, after dark, commanding an invisible army from the cold smooth concrete cliff. it’s a violent gestural arm phrase that cuts through my steamy breath. the audience of no one is captivated as i capitate my imagined assailant. “Okay, My turn now…” a skater carves the park back into it’s intended form. I pull my sleeves over my hands and practice press-to-handstands on a grindrail, which proves to be more difficult than my mind says it is. I run up the wall and do a jump turn. the ground comes up too soon from the dimly lit air and i have to improvise a side-roll to keep my face blood-free and my teeth where they belong. the skater criss-crosses my path unshaken. we’re soloists on two separate stages that happen to take up the same space-time tube. Our oblivion of each other is intentional, and neither one of us has a desire to learn the other’s vocabulary. I fold the audience back into myself and walk away a teeny bit of new material.