On Dance, Story, Myth, and Humanity

The dances I make have a more than usual emphasis on story. Dance is a directly human art form; it is body language ritualized. But modern and postmodern dance have become so interested in exploring the possibilities of the body, in abstracted movement, that audiences today are often left after shows feeling as if they’ve missed something. There is little worse than leaving a show and feeling like you’ve missed the point.

There is, of course, a lot of value to a choreographer in these abstract studies. The problem, I think, is that many choreographers these days fail to bring their human subject matter full circle–they fail to make the humanity in their dances apparent. Humans experience the world through story, and our nonverbal communication should be furthering the plot. Or the character development. Or at least the descriptions of the setting.

Our culture lacks a Unified Mythic Story. I am sure that most pagans will agree. And all the conflicting mythic stories aren’t getting along. They’re fracturing into fundamentalisms–some religions take their mythic stories so seriously that they lose track of the truth, and some atheisms take their truth so seriously they lose the story. And they’re shouting out loud over all the people who want to see the story in the truth, or who want to learn the truth by learning the story.

If you want to know about a person, you ask them or someone else for their story. So why, in trying to learn about humanity or about the planet or the universe are we asking for objective facts and not for the story? It’s basically impossible to learn any kind of meaning out of dry objective facts just on their own, but make them a story, and suddenly you’ll never forget.

During the late seventies, as the modern dance movement shifted into the post-modern, choeographers became suddenly interested in exploring the body as an object.

Personally, I take retroactive offense. The human body as dancer is not an object to be explored, it is a whole universe of stories to tell. Find a new shape or movement that the human body can make, and there you are finding the climax to an undiscovered story.

All stories are mythic stories. All stories tell something about the universe. And I want my dances to teach people the story of the universe. I want my dances to help people hear the world as I hear it, not as human bodies moving through an inanimate space, but as stories weaving in and out of bodies and minds and spaces and matter and thought. I want to give a mini-mythology to parts of the “inanimate” world by telling its story through dance.

The last dance I made was the story of The Water Cycle. I told the story of the clouds floating awkwardly in the sky, becoming Santas riding T-Rexes and toasters making popcorn and people who turn into fish. I told the story of the rain, writing a lonely letter to the lonely people of the world, the sky crying. I told the story of the water in runoff that hides its clear blue surface in the mud and flows relentlessly downward. I told the story of a lake holding a woman’s history and reflecting it back to another woman. And I told the story of evaporation, of molecules dancing with one another back and forth between liquid and gas as they rise to return to the clouds.

These are the stories the Water Cycle has to tell me. They are far from the only stories the Water Cycle has to tell. It also tells of snowfalls so serene and beautiful on a winter’s day, of hail that destroys homes, of glaciers that move an inch a year, or that melt despairingly in the growing heat of the Earth. The world is made of water. It’s also made of stories.

 

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My changing relationships with dance and paganism

So I haven’t posted in a while. And there are a lot of reasons for that. One of those reasons is that I’ve been super busy. I haven’t had a normal weekend in over a month–not that I’m complaining. I’ve had two long-term friends come to visit, gone to Jamaica to visit another one for a week, gone back to my college to see another one, and had a weekend that included three different performances that were all kick-ass and a photoshoot in a creek. So I’ve been really busy, but in a good way.

The other main reason I haven’t been posting, really, is that I’ve been thinking more about what it means to be a dancer who happens to be a pagan more than what it means to be a pagan who happens to be a dancer, if that makes any sense. I feel like, in general, this blog has been a platform for me to share what dancing has for paganism, but very little for what paganism has for dancing. I feel my posts on paganism are much better received than my posts that focus more on dance, if only because the bulk of my readership are pagans (with the exception of my post “A Modern and Indigenous Dance,” which apparently shows up when people google “indigenous dance.” And in the last few years since I graduated college, my relationship with both dancing and paganism have evolved.

In college, I was really focused on my paganism, and that paganism helped my dancing considerably. I was in a beautiful and inspiring place, doing beautiful, inspiring, and challenging things with my time, and paganism was a huge part of that. I was thinking about my religion for a large part of every day, and that directly affected my dancing and choreography.

But now that I’ve graduated and have a boring pay-the-bills kind of job that I find completely unsatisfying, dance maybe three or four days a week only for a few hours, and finally (OH YES FINALLY-I still feel this way a year after he moved in) have My Gent to come home to, paganism has a bit fallen to the wayside. My thoughts focus more on my family and my dancing. My choreography is still inspired by my relationship with the earth, but it’s much more subtle of a thing–I have a new relationship with the earth that has colored who I am to the extent that my art couldn’t avoid being influenced by it. In the past, I was purposefully making art with a pagan theme.

So it’s different. I think about dance now far more often than I think about paganism. I think I’ve integrated the paganism into my selfhood, and I’m not meant to be pagan clergy or anything. I’m a dancer who happens to be a pagan, and I’m much closer to pagan laity than anything else.

Last weekend at my first rehearsal for my piece about water, in a sort of getting-to-know-you way, I asked my dancers each to share a story about a time when they had an important experience with water. I talked about the time when the raindrops wrote me a letter about loneliness on the road’s pavement when I was alone. Two of them told stories about their baptism, and it was disconcerting and surprising to me. I hadn’t thought about the fact that for most people, and especially most city people, the main experiences with water would be in a planned sort of way, and I certainly hadn’t really expected that Christianity, with it’s fake and distanced relationship to the earth, would come up in a discussion of one of the four elements. (And yes, I am aware that I just made a really loaded assertion about Christians and the earth, and that it will piss people off, but it’s something that has been bothering my very Christian boyfriend for quite some time now, and which was the main reason I left Christianity in the first place). That experience–of having a Christian ritual bear itself into my choreographic process, my pagan ritual to the creativity of the universe and of water and our bodies which are sacks of water–got me to thinking about what it means to be a dancer who happens to be a pagan. I’ve been thinking a lot about the way that we can’t insulate ourselves against people who disagree with us the way Christians can. There aren’t enough of us to surround ourselves only with those who agree (and besides, there aren’t any of us who agree on anything in the first place). We are, by social necessity and by polytheology, required to interact with people who don’t share our viewpoints. Which is good, even if it is occasionally jarring and surprising.

I think I’m going to make an effort to post more about dance without feeling like I have to make it about paganism. Because I am a pagan, and so my thoughts on dance will be pagan even if not explicitly so. My relationship with dance has changed because of paganism.

Here are a couple examples:

1) Since becoming pagan, my relationship with dance has become more embodied. If that sounds weird, considering that dance is an embodied art form, remember please that ballet was originally an art form designed to transcend the confines of the body,  to lift ourselves above our baser natures, to be released from gravity and fat and all the kinds of things that make it so living is possible. I was trained originally in ballet, and didn’t even try another dance form until I was 16 or so. Dance was never about my body when I was young–it was about perfecting the steps, wearing pointe shoes and tutus, and getting to perform in front of people. Now, I see that dance is about the body, not about using the body as a tool to get outside of it. I see that our bodies are ourselves and that by changing our relationship with our body by using and accepting its expressive language, we can change the way we feel about ourselves.

2. I see that dance is an experiential art form, not a performative one. This one has been really difficult for me to come to terms with as a professional performer. A small part of me has always felt annoyed with the fact that, on a certain level, I never thought dance was important. I loved dancing, but I saw people trying to argue that dance performances will change the world, and in a way I never really believed that, partially because of how much bad dance there is out there meaning that so few people actually see dance that is thought-provoking or paradigm-shifting, and partially because so few people ever get to see dance performed anyway. Outside of music videos, dance audiences are pretty much limited to wealthy philanthropists and friends and families of dancers and choreographers. But I see now that that’s not really why I felt that way. I don’t think dance performances will change the world because I believe dancing itself will change the world. Dancing changes us because the act of dancing is important to our psyches and our emotional well-being. The only people who are passionate about dance are the dancers whose own lives and relationships with their bodies have been changed by the act of dancing. And that is because dance is, at its core, an experiential art form.

With these two changes in mind, I think I might have figured out what I want to do with my life. This is probably a bit early to be making this statement, since I only discovered it the day before yesterday. But in some sense, I feel as sure about this as I did about finding paganism. I want to go to school do become a dance/movement therapist. Fortunately, one of the six programs in the US in this field is in Philadelphia. But the two reasons above are largely why I want to do it.

First, a little mini explanation of what it is. Dance therapy is a psychotherapeutic technique in which people use their own expressive movement to heal their psychological issues, ranging from autism to bad self-esteem to dementia.

The prerequisites for the program were my three favorite types of classes in college-anatomy, psychology, and dance. As I’ve gone through the past several years thinking about what I could do to make a living (professional dancing is so far from a living that it pisses me off now how much of an industry there is around training people to be professional dancers) besides the crappy secretarial work that’s supposedly all I’m qualified for, I’ve thought of several different kinds of therapy: the regular talking kind, physical therapy, massage therapy. All of them are wrong for some reason or another, mainly boiling down to my problems with Cartesian mind/body dualism. Massage therapy gets the closest to breaking it down, but regular psychotherapy focuses on the mind instead of the body, and physical therapy and massage therapy in general focus on fixing the body so the mind can get back to its work. Dance therapy, on the other hand, does exactly what my paganism and my dance training have taught me: that the body and the mind are inseparable, and that we can change our minds by changing our bodies. Even when I was teaching dance, there were elements of this in my class–I was helping my students work with their own anatomy instead of against it, which I could tell helped with their self-esteem.

Anyway, this dance therapy thing is something I’m going to continue exploring and looking into in the future, so I can decide if I want to go back to school for it. But I’m sure I would be good at it, and I’m sure that it would make me feel like I was doing something useful, productive, and challenging with my life.

Dancing for Freyja and the world

I’ve been a little down in the dumps about finding a place for dance in society lately. People don’t seem to care, there’s no funding (and Congress wants to cut what little there is). Art in general is pretty underappreciated, but I think dance is pretty far up on the list of most underappreciated art forms. So I wanted to go ahead and speak a little about why dance is important, especially from the framework of a devotee of Freyja. I’m sure a lot of this will be things I’ve said on here before, but I’d like to put it all here in one spot, so that I can come back and look at it when I’m feeling useless again in the future.

Dance is not the twinkletoes silly thing most people bill it as, and modern dance is not the “interpretive dance” of people pretending to be trees and the wind as it’s so often mocked to be. The people who mock dance as being silly or pointless or whatever have a)probably never seen good dance and b)probably are pretty disconnected with their bodies.

Being disconnected with our bodies is an extremely common problem in the society in which we live. Women, in particular, have a pretty strong distaste for their bodies and spend endless hours talking and thinking about how much they hate their bodies, and money and other resources on making their bodies more to their liking through plastic surgery and dieting, as if somehow dieting or getting plastic surgery can make you get sort of updated to a better model. But a body is not a consumer product. It isn’t something to ignore or despise. It’s easy enough to hate yourself if you like your body, and since our bodies are ourselves, hating your body is basically equivalent to self-loathing.

While I am not going to try to argue that dance helps people like their bodies better, especially considering how pervasive eating disorders are among dancers, I do think that dance has the capability of teaching us that our bodies are important parts of ourselves, and, as parts of ourselves, need to be tended to.

One of the things that people often say when they first get to know Freyja is that she makes you face your body. She likes to teach people to embrace the pleasures of their body–whether that be through doing something pretty with their hair, or taking hot perfumed baths, or even just enjoying sex more. Freyja helps us to remember that our bodies are our growing selves, the parts that come from the same nature as the trees and flowers. Our thoughts are cultural, but our bodies are made from the stuff the earth is made of. And she wants us to see them as beautiful, just as we do sunsets and flowers and trees.

So I like to promote dance as what might be Freyja’s favorite art form, the one most closely aligned with her other domains. They overlap so strongly–beauty and bodies, energy raising, skill, joy.

In general, I think aesthetics are not given enough credence. Our workplaces are drab, our city streets colorless. And while it is true that beauty is not necessarily required for life to go on, beauty is often what makes life worth living. And here, of course, I mean beauty in a broad sense–not just visual beauty, but the beauty of all our senses–sound, touch, taste, kinesthesia, even story and emotional beauty like joy. Art teaches us about the world in which we live, teaches us how to cope with the difficulties of life, gives us the freedom to say those hidden thoughts that cannot be expressed through normal conversation. People are happier in places with a good sense of aesthetics–I certainly am.

Dancing is how I bring Freyja’s mysteries out into the world where they can be appreciated even by people who don’t know her. Where people can learn to align themselves with their bodies, their most expressive entity, so that they may learn to take care of themselves better. If we actually engaged with our own bodies, and tried to take care of them as we do our family members or even beloved objects like the heirloom necklace my mother gave me, instead of making them into commodities, then perhaps we can fix our world, too. Perhaps we can make a world to take care of ourselves instead of our wallets, and we can try not to pollute them. We could fix the world.

It is, perhaps, too far to think that teaching people dance could teach them to take better care of the planet. But what if? What if we really listened to our bodies? What if we really acted as if our bodies mattered, as if they are more than a vessel for our brains? Could we clean the air for our tired lungs? The land for our tired food?

For more on why art is awesome, see: The Artist Rebuttal Book Project

When did I become what I am?

It’s weird to me the way that time passes and we change. We mark the changes with rites of passage, but sometimes those rites don’t really anchor us in a new reality. Sometimes the transformation isn’t entirely complete, and we’re left a little funny and confused.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because of my dancing. To start with, let me give a very brief history of my time as a dancer.

I was in a baby dance class when I was in kindergarten, and I hated it. I quit right away. When I was in first grade, I decided I wanted to be a ballerina, but my mom wouldn’t let me take classes because I had quit already. She told me that I hated dance class. And so I begged and begged her for months until she finally decided to sign me up again. So I took ballet classes, and I loved it. I kept taking it, and in middle school I was so excited when I got my first pointe shoes. It made me feel so grown up. But I wasn’t ready to be so grown up, and I fought with myself to commit to dancing. I joined the school’s student company, but my heart wasn’t really in it.

Then came the day when it all happened, when I became a dancer instead of a girl who takes dance classes after school. I was performing in the school’s year end recital, and there was this moment while I was doing an grande battement to the right with my arms in high fifth and the lights were shining in my eyes, and I just knew. That was the moment when I saw the truth in dancing, that dancing is more than just a good workout to music, or something beautiful to watch. That was the moment I knew that dance is a true art, and that dancing can connect me to myself.

Beginning right after that, I was pretty fully committed, but there was one problem: nobody thought I was good enough to make it. Teachers from several schools including the summer program where I went the next year, the teacher at my studio, and even every single one of my college professors, independently told me that I had pretty okay technique, but that I was not a good performer. That I wasn’t capable of showing myself in my dance, that my performances were dry and meaningless. One teacher told me that it’s like I had the love of dance trained out of me, like as soon as I started dancing, I donned a poker face and stopped letting the world in like I could so easily in conversation.

These comments had to be true because they came from so many directions. There is no way so many teachers could have independently told me the same thing if it weren’t true. And it wounded me so deeply that it was true–as if my love for dance was unrequited and it didn’t love me back. I wanted so badly to fix the problem, to express something. I think that half of my problem was that I was generally too immature to know what to express. I didn’t understand that what we express when we’re dancing isn’t the same as acting. I kept wanting the teachers to give me a subject or a story to act out–without that story, it was just a sequence of steps. It was only a few isolated, shining moments when I knew, intuitively and without words, what they meant because I felt it instead of trying to explain it to myself in my head.

My other problem was technique. I was trained in a pretty strict ballet school, where we were taught that a good performance means turning your head the right way. It was all about being in exactly the right position on the right count. Modern dance eluded me for at least the first year of my studying it. I didn’t understand this style that was more about the feeling of a movement than the shape of it, and I couldn’t understand why my professors seemed to think my excellent ability to mimic the shapes they gave me was treated as a handicap of sorts. I was trying to dance emotional movement as a technical exercise–I was too lost in the rules to have fun playing the game.

I’m not sure exactly when that changed, but I do know that it did. And I know that now, even though I am a professional dancer, each and every time someone tells me that I am an expressive and powerful performer, I am stunned. Each and every time is a cause of celebration because it means that I was able to overcome the things I fought so dearly to overcome, that I was able to let loose and really dance.

It happened right before I graduated, and the professor who told me I had a poker face cried actual tears telling me that a performance of mine was human and expressive. But I still thought of it as a fluke.

I had wanted there to be a rite of passage making me an expressive dancer. Something that meant I had “made it.” I wanted it desperately. But it wasn’t graduation, and it wasn’t even when I got my first job as a professional dancer. I still have a hard time believing that I’ve become what I’ve become. I know it logically. I can look at the notes on my fridge from choreographers telling me how grateful they are to have me in their shows, but deep down, it’s so hard to believe that everything I wanted actually came true, that somehow or another, all the emotions I feel when I dance learned to show themselves to my audience.

The transition is weirdly incomplete in my subconscious. And it’s making me feel weirdly unworthy of the success I’ve enjoyed thus far in my short dance career. Because I still feel like that girl who is told over and over by every dance teacher she’s ever studied under that she isn’t good enough, that she’ll never make it, that she doesn’t have that je ne sais quois that you either have or you don’t and that can’t be taught.

I don’t really know what I’m getting at here, except that it’s weird how we grow up without noticing and then suddenly realize we aren’t who we thought we are. And how it’s weird that we can have that same realization over and over again until we know without knowing that we’ve moved forward. Perhaps there is also cautionary tale in here somewhere about losing the forest for the trees.

But seriously, at what point do we stop being one thing and start being another? When do we solve our problems? Can we ever shed the identities of our past to share in the realities of our present?

On Poetry and Past

The full moon shines down on us
as I teach you to recline on the water.
I make sure your mouth
never falls below the surface
where the leaves
drown in the moon.

“If you kiss the moon,
it will always be there,”
floating upon the water
where we lay,
hoping never to fall into the moon
but holding on to it
with our mouths.

Hello all! Things have been going so well in our little household, and it’s all been quite the whirlwind. Just before yule, and all in one week, my sister got a pretty big raise, I was hired by a new dance company that I’m bursting with excitement about, and Gent, after six months of unemployment since graduating, was hired by an architecture firm, and today is his first day as an architect. I’m really proud of my little family.

Just after that, we went back home to Alabama, which was a week chock full of nostalgia and family. My Dad had spent the last year cleaning out the upstairs where my sister and I used to live, and had made a pile of things for us to go through to decide what should be kept and what shouldn’t. I found a pile of my old journals, including a journal of poetry I had thought I had lost (including all of the poems included in this post) when my last computer died. But I was ecstatic to find I had handwritten them all. And as I read through them, I was shocked once again to find how I have been a pagan under the surface all my life. I wrote that poem just over a year before I converted. There were others there with a pretty distinct pagan sensibility to them that I just hadn’t ever noticed before. Of course I’m a pagan and always have been–my art has always reflected it.

In fact, the first dance piece I ever made was about the rain. I had noticed that all of my poetry was about the rain, and I had one of my first meaningful interactions with nature while standing in the rain one summer while I was lonely. I watched the raindrops falling on the road, and it was as if the pattern of splashes was coming down in its own language to tell me I wasn’t alone, and to wash away my tears with the tears of the sky.

The rain pulls my tears
down
to the black road,
pools in puddles,
write words of
enduring loneliness
with swift,
white splashes.

The rain dries my tears.

After I made my rain dance piece, it was only a month or so before my conversion.

Our visit continued on, and I got along with my mother better than ever, it being the year anniversary of my outing myself as a pagan. She made a few snide remarks, but otherwise things went pretty smoothly. It was strange to be back around my family and Davin’s for the first time since we’ve been living together full time. It was strange to have him sleep in my bedroom back home all night without a single comment from anyone about how we shouldn’t do that. It was strange to go back to my bedroom with its purple walls covered in paintings of fairies and a wall collage of photographs from high school, to see the pictures of Davin and I in our first inklings of love, to see old friends I no longer keep up with, to see all the things that used to matter to me to which I can no longer relate, like my obsession with ballet and my preference for leotards and pointe shoes, and to see little things left behind, little foreshadows of my future as a pagan dancer: the candles, the flowers, the fairies, the books about nature. And, of course, the book of handwritten poetry.

If only…

These sheets formed the ceiling
of an ocean, protecting our eye-contact
within these endless waters,
and the morning sun shined through ice sheets
instead of window glass and woven cotton,
while still joining your eyes inside mine,

then

your tentacles could hold me to your mouth
until all of the ice on earth melted and
only
the sun left my eyes.

And then it was time to drive home, but Holda had taken control of the Northeast, so we were forced to stay an extra day in Alabama, watching the first white Christmas they’ve had in decades while our own home in Philadelphia was left covered in a foot of snow. Usually when it snows in Philadelphia it rains in Alabama. And so we left our parents at home in the South with the rain and the at-best-once-a-year snow flurries and came home to our second winter in Philadelphia, hoping that this winter will be less snowy than the last, but unlike rainy Alabama winters.

Moving Out

For my father

One winter morning
I watched my father make breakfast
as I told him my dream
of the snow that covered the rainfall, stopped it.
He hugged me when I finished,
and the rain
began to make stripes on the window.
Snowfalls make spots–
not here, only farther,
where dreams become real to me.

Now, the rain is a dream,
only falling where my father and mother
can’t fall in the snow.

When I dream of snow,
make me rain, father.

Midsummer, Etc.

So I figured I’d make a post telling you all about my wonderful Midsummer festivities, as well as fill you in a little as to what I’ve been up to for the past month and a half.

So the biggest thing was that my boyfriend graduated from college. He’s going to be an architect, and I’m very proud of him.

After he graduated, he moved in with me, and we’ve been working on all kinds of projects we’ve been wanting to work on for the entire five years we’ve been long-distance. (OHMYGODSICAN’TBELIEVEIT’SREALLYOVER!!!!) We started a garden. We’re growing some flowers, which aren’t doing so well, and some herbs, which are growing like crazy. We’ve got basil, thyme, oregano, and lemon verbena. Please ignore how hideous our back patio is. We live in a cheap house in a city.

I got a very good omen from Freyja regarding our garden. Just as I was sweeping out all the dead leaves from last autumn and the previous tenants, I found an amber marble hidden beneath the leaves. And the garden has reinvigorated my love of life, which was lacking recently due to all the goings on in the news.

We’re making some lemon verbena infused vodka out of some of our lemon verbena leaves. Its smells delicious.

In other news, I have done some less-religiousy things as well. One of them is that Gent has me interested in the World Cup. I never knew I cared about sports at all, but what can I say? He’s so excited it’s been rubbing off.

I also began rehearsals for and performed in a burlesque show. It was fun because it was just barely outside my comfort zone. But I didn’t have to get too naked, and it was a good way to see a different side of my lady–the place where dancing and sex coincide. My pieces were really fun. I was in a girl fight against a serious boxer character. I won by “accidentally” tearing her clothes off and then swinging my hair in her face. And I was in a balloon dance, where we were dressed entirely in balloons, and then popped them all off ourselves. Here’s a picture of rehearsal for that piece.

Anyway, moving on to Midsummer. We have a tradition that’s started on the first anniversary of my oaths to my gods that’s three years old now. That means that this was also the third anniversary of my oaths. I’m a bit shocked it’s been so long already, and yet it seems like they’ve been a part of my life forever. Anyway, the tradition is summer solstice berry picking. We went and picked this many berries:

And then we made this out of some of them:

In addition, we also started brewing some mead that we plan to consume for Yule.

After all the baking, I went down to the basement to my new temple and made my prayers. I told my gods that I still love them and that I still am glad I made my oaths. I talked to them about how my relationship with them is important, but changing with all the ways that my devotions and sacrifices are becoming ever more fully in my day-to-day life with things like dancing getting so busy and the garden and the cooking we’ve been doing and my hair and skirts. And I love it. I’m finally living my faith. And having Gent with me has actually been quite spiritually transformative. I’ve been longing for so long for a family, a home. And now he’s here and I have him and my sister, and I live with my entire family.

For the three years that I’ve been a heathen, every time I’ve done a rune reading about Gent, it’s read that we’re good for each other, but to wait. Always, always there was Jera. Every time. Telling me that my life was in my future, and that was where my joy was. And now he’s here, and last night, the runes said we’d be happy. And out came othila–the rune I’ve been waiting for for years. Telling me that I’m home with my family now.

So now, at the height of summer, when Sunna glows brightest on Earth, I have the greatest gift of my heathen years. I have the family and the home and the hearth that my faith has been seeking.

Anne Sexton

Here is a poem by Anne Sexton that always fills me with joy and reminds me of Freyja and her brother. It’s one of my favorite love poems of all time.

Us

I was wrapped in black

fur and white fur and

you undid me and then

you placed me in gold light

and then you crowned me,

while snow fell outside

the door in diagonal darts.

While a ten-inch snow

came down like stars

in small calcium fragments,

we were in our own bodies

(that room that will bury us)

and you were in my body

(that room that will outlive us)

and at first I rubbed your

feet dry with a towel

because I was your slave

and then you called me princess.

Princess!

Oh then

I stood up in my gold skin

and I beat down the psalms

and I beat down the clothes

and you undid the bridle

and you undid the reins

and I undid the buttons,

the bones, the confusions,

the New England postcards,

the January ten o’clock night,

and we rose up like wheat,

acre after acre of gold,

and we harvested,

we harvested.

In other news, my life is starting to calm down a little bit, so I should be able to write a new post sometime in the next week or so.

Some eye candy

Here is some of the most beautiful dance I have ever seen.

It’s extremely well-choreographed, beautifully danced, and super sexy. I most completely recommend watching it. If you only plan to watch one half, I think the second is a little better, but both are DEFINITELY worth it. The first one is mostly men with swords, and the second has the coolest dress dance in history and an extremely beautiful and sexy duet.

Petite Mort by Netherlands Dance Theater