Oct 18, 2002
the skin could not sense wet, only temperature, only pressure, and so, she asked the one beside her with her eyes and hands splayed into question marks, were they in water? swimming or flying? ~ the page was still blank as she ran on a diagonal, waiting for the air to lift her spine; readied for flight, her scapulae ached for the space above. (and when she slept, she would sleep on her back, her wings, half wings, watching the ceiling, the space above the ceiling as she dreamed of air her almost wings learning the currents above). ~ it is the seaweed she remembers, lake weed really, and runs her fingers through and out of again, tangling, untangling and repeating. she stirs the rain that falls and smells of north (a decade ago north). wind pulls at her shoulders as water, skull floating above the line that is her spine, rain scars the length of her back. as she winds lakeweed, she plays between the current of wind (city) and tugging of lake (remembered). she walks home wet and stands on the porch until the wet stops stinging; a rain storm on wednesday, her dress soaked to the outline of nipple.
From the author:
I am on a mission to promote the integration of poetry to the process of ‘reviewing’ or responding to dance performances. I feel that the experience of dance supercedes the judgment attached to work (ex: That was a ‘good’ piece; I didn’t ‘like’ that show etc …), and that reviews or responses to creative performances should focus on experience over judgment. By responding through words, creating some semblance of poetry, I feel that the ephemeral art of dance is extended into a larger ‘lifetime’ as well as to a larger audience.