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Entries in dance (84)

Sunday
Apr082012

memory 3

then what happened in the plotless point, asked elf.

a young smiling cambodian man without hands smoked a cigarette.

he held it between stubs.

his rolling cart held genocide books and angkor aspara dancers.

he left a fractured conversation with a friend in expansive green shade near a brown river. 

hi mister, want to buy a book? a dancer? cheap. good morning price. brings luck.

no thank you. reading history is destined for marvelous suffering memory.

dancers live forever, he said, dancing to the sea. waves turned a page.

Wednesday
Nov232011

beauty

This is my Beauty.

Fear and trust dance in stillness. I meditate. Calm. Centered. I am a stone cold Apsara silent dancer dancing inside my revolutionary soul. 

I feel like screaming.

The dancing hall at Preah Khan is where dancers don’t smile. They dance. They are slave dancers. They dance for the king.

He is the god-king. He resurrected his desire and fury creating new customs and new decrees for dancers. They dance for the mighty and powerful. They dance Khmer stories about war, conquest, harvests, seasons, sun and moon. 

They are submissive dances of life/death. They dance to celebrate life. They dance the celebration of tranquility. They dance or die. They wear tinkling bands of gold around wrists and ankles. Diamond diademed crowns and shimmering silk clothing. They do not smile. Their faces are frozen in the trance of dance. 

I dance to escape the tyranny. I’ve danced all my short, sweet life. The hall of dancers is surrounded by columns, portals and broken jumbled green moss stones. Stones whisper dance.

Thick gnarled silk-cotton tree roots crawl toward dancers. They dance through exposed roots, past Shiva and Vishnu. The preserver and destroyer of life. Dance movement is motivated by emotional expression. Dance is about itself. The freedom of creation. A playful existence. Life is a silent dance.

 

Monday
Jul182011

sun dance

I dream the Sun Dance of the Plains people.

Nations gather in late spring celebrating a four day cycle of rituals and creation dances.

Dancers choosing self torture will have their chests pierced by skewers.

They will hang under the weight of buffalo skulls for 24 dances.

Their sacrifice will be successful if they have a vision during their trial.

The sun is going home to the earth.

 One vision is all you need.

 

Wednesday
Jul062011

rhythm

Namaste,

when I learned the alphabet
late in life toward primordial birth

infinite moment before now and then

air whispers sang
from my trash collector’s plastic bottle
pulling my rolling cart filled with cardboard
singing a muscular rhythm
stirring sonomulent dust on broken stones

in a deep forest

Metta.

Tuesday
Jul052011

empty ears

Namaste,

A Spanish kid said, “I’m setting the scene where place is a developing character and enhancing the tone of the tale. Anyway, while he was enjoying fresh mountain air so inherently peaceful, calm and a blessing, he noticed, way up in the high sky multiple black specks.

"He immediately recognized a family of Egyptian vultures and eagles who lived in the national park. They were practicing early morning flight on excellent thermal drafts.

"One of the largest nesting colonies of tawny vultures in Europe. While living and hiking in the region he’d seen several species: the golden eagle, Hieraetus fasciatus, Aquila heliaca, Hieratus pennatus, and Circaetus gallicus. Goshawk and the Egyptian vulture also inhabited the Sierras.

“What did he do? How did he see them clearly?”

“He got his 7x20 binoculars and focused on the predators. Amazing. There were six mature ones and young ones slowly circling on drafts.”

“Were they rough drafts?”

“Probably,” said the kid, laughing, "It got them started. Cutting creates real honest and true writing.”

“So, I’ve heard. But you can’t believe everything you hear.”

“Easy to say and hard to do as they say in China.”

“Speaking of China in Mandarin, you can get your ears cleaned there.”

“What did you say?"

“Now it happened that at that moment in the empty Chinese opera one afternoon in Chengdu, you sit down in a wicker chair and give the girl in a blue uniform 10Y or slightly more than a buck. A group of Chinese men in wicker chairs drinking tea stare and laugh at you. Everyone stares at you in China because it's a human zoo and you are an exotic humanoid species of endless speculation.

“Look at the funny foreigner! He’s going to get his ears cleaned. Boy is he in for a surprise!”

“You sit back and close your eyes. She has all the tools; long steel wires, cotton swabs, some ointment, a microscopic spoon on a post and a pair of stainless steel tongs.

“She probes your right ear with the spoon and digs out hard brown wax. She flicks it on the ground where it becomes part of Ear Wax Mountain, a new wonder of the World. She swabs and cleans out your ear with a small cotton ball on a thin wire. While this is buried in your ear she taps the tongs creating a vibrating frequency.

"She touches the steel rod in your ear and you hear the WHIRLING! BUZZ! BUZZ! as 1,000 bees and cicadas invade your consciousness with a deafening crescendo. She has opened your aural chambers big time! taps the tongs again, you receive the echo chamber canyon of sound, the WHIRLING BUZZ like sandpaper being rasped against old fibers of skin or yes, the fast centrifugal centrifuge of heartbeat nuclear reactors, roaring rivers inside a galaxy of weightless streams. BUZZ!

“She eases it out, massages your temples, your eyes are closed, dreaming you are in a Chinese opera playing the role of an old dramatic hero dying at his post after proclaiming his undying love for family and harmonious social order and stability in the country.

“She attacks and cleans the other ear and the vibrations take you away. BUZZ, BUZZ, BUZZ! She caresses your ears, massages your temples and scalp and when she finishes you no longer have a hearing problem. It’s all in the listening. You’ve been buzzed back to clarity.”

“Everything that goes in the ear comes out as language. It becomes a tool for emotion and expression.”

Metta.