Floating in My Body
As an older dancer, I always think about what my body and can't do - sometimes, I think about what it used to do and can't any more. And then there are times when I realize I'm doing something entirely new that I never did before.
Watching movement is like sitting at the edge of a pond, waiting for the frog to leap out at you or a fish to come by. Something new is going to happen, but you can't imagine what. Sometimes it's just the waves lapping at the bank; sometimes it's the violence of a creature in the act of eating another creature. The point is, they are moving together - linked by fate or nature or being in the wrong place at the right time.
I see a pedestrian coming toward me, his left arm bent like a hanger against his stomach, as though he were carrying a tray and it has just spilled its contents on the ground. What happened to his arm? How does this affect his walk? his facial expression? his place in the traffic?
I think about my body when I walk down Philly streets. My foot catches on a curb and I almost (but not quite) trip; I turn a corner and someone is rushing around and nearly hits me but doesn't. A runner skirts by me and I smell her sweat she is so close; a kid on a skateboard divides the street so my husband and I have to part suddenly. I see a car coming toward me and do a grand jete to the opposite corner to stay safe.
It's all in motion. It's all still. Astounding.