Life waking up    

Where does the silence at the core of our dance meet story? I’m curious if through feeling into past story we can grow backwards and feed it forwards. A poetic glance back at my young experience of 2005, cultural/media influence, and saving grace.
–  –  –  –  –  –  
I remember being that age.
The age of smalling with lightness, before the wide open doors.
The eyes in the cafes, in the glassed bistros, and the boutiques of held breath couldn’t help but drown themselves in shared envy of what is never-to-keep,
The age of wide open doors.

Behind the bright future,
Jeans suffocating thin thighs, the tall boots, a side of suede/a side of fur thrown around my clavicle.
On glossed-print blue-skied London winter days you could be fooled,
But life is of breath.
Remember life is of breath.

Shrinking cells do not even hope to fight behind the tight hug of enamored glory as denim edge cuts to the marrow of hips,
As the high street throws images from window people, down with their reflection upon your shadow,
Where comparison is taught to conquer.

But one day, hidden in the impoverished exchange between the ribs, across alveoli,
Between tight fitting absent appearances at weekend coffee and lunch, between the lost rigid questions of where will it begin, when will it end,
And who will ever find me,
A sharp slap of winter wind crossing the river bridge throws itself upon you like a merciless mother wanting only your very life.

Already gone, to the space behind,
While you linger in the still shock of love.
The skin-tight clavicle falls down resting back into the wings around your own spine,
And within, a living journey has entered,
Greeting every cell.
Breathe, breathe
Know me over and over
I am of life.
–  –  –  –  –  –  

A wider view    

The gift came yesterday, the zooming out of my own seriousness, as my chain fell off while cycling up a steep hill against the faultless blue sky of a Devonshire day. Just as my complaints tried to find some ethereal management with whom to reckon, the aerial view opened up within my mind. There I noticed, like a musical piece or a film scene, how the interruption in fact added a certain quality of entertainment. A pause, or a hiccup adds variety to the smooth running. How could I reject this? My grumbles turned to laughter and I even found enjoyment when it recurred several yards later.
It could be the ‘near’ nature of modern life; the screens, the walls, the importance of I, but I can’t help notice how serious life is when I’m contained to the top-upper portion of my body – my head. Yet to include the full perimeter to heels and back offers instant relaxation, and add to that the geographical perspective to see my reality as a dot cycling back and forth through country lanes of cows and sheep the story is a but visual work of art for my own amazement.
For my class tonight I had toyed earlier with including all aspects ourselves in dance. From today’s perspective, it seems that INclusion’s curious piece is to include the out. I think we’ll begin by taking a good soft focused look at the fields around us and find ourselves within the full frame.

Creative channels ~ what language does this expression speak?    

At the doorway to a regular dance group last night I recognized a dilemma with implications that stopped me still. It might be more important to write than to dance tonight. 
I shared this with the doorman. He told me that some bring journals. I reflected alone, dancing and writing may both be languages but at this stage of their intimate development I don’t want to mix them. Listen to Spanish and Russian, they both come to life in their own isolation. (Though I’ll say I loved the moment’s image of myself as a fluent old crone who would one day play it all together.)
I danced, for my body, for silence, and I turned a blind eye on my mind full of story. There were moments of immersion but I valued the moments of dissatisfaction more. It was the great dissatisfaction itself that led my unthinking legs up the stairs and my surprised eyes to watch as I pulled the black curtain aside and stepped behind.
The stage was lit to one side. I danced the full space and discovered from across the room that my shadow lived in one corner. We danced together and through wordless stories I learned things about myself I never knew.
The more I indulge life as creativity I can see no option but to be available to insanity for this while, and to in fact allow the languages to mix and make no sense. There is a sanity in the totality, and cultural conventions seem insane. As John Lennon said, ‘The more real you are, the less real the world seems.’

On writing, dancing.. being artfully attentive.    

Let’s talk about writing. It’s a long story hey? But we can’t tell it that way, or we’d wear ourselves out, and get lost along the way.
Writing is like the best lessons in life, simple, honest and like a parabola that begins with the smallest solitary detail, and takes a journey to find itself home again in the heart of the universe. 
Writing begins from a love affair with silence, and in there the voice you’ll hear dances with words.
Writing is a sanctuary that calls the soul back, to slow down thoughts on the darkest of days. It can craft the shadow into clear form; writing is an attention that shines light on space.
Can you trust that your reader is your most intimate companion? Their mystery is your blessing. Your voice addresses your fullest self, it dares to include the parts you never before knew, and the ‘Other’ out there (beautifully beyond your control is their response). It addresses the silence you hear after your words. 
There you will see in the full vulnerability of your expression to the world, there is nothing of yourself to defend, only expression that disappears into the vastness.
You have no purpose but to stay true.

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