legs & arms

Dance does not like to be written, but is, nonetheless. When dance is written, it dies a little. Like the smoker inhaling the lit cigarette, dance sometimes needs to feel its own mortality, maybe even kill itself a little. When dance is written, a small slit is knifed into its arm.

There is a dance where a woman forces a man to wrap his arms around her waist, then bursts through his arms in a panicked run, repeating out loud, Hold me while I try to get away! This happens many times. She stands in front of him, puts his arms around her, bursts through his arms, runs away and yells, Hold me why I try to get away, then runs back to do it all again.

Words love to dance. When words dance, they get reincarnated, becoming free again to fancy or flounder. But even if they fail, when words dance, they have had a chance to become anew, to be re-membered, get new legs and arms.

There is a dance where a man and woman are all tangled up in each other’s limbs, when the man suggests to the woman, How about you be you, and I’ll be me? This dance is inked onto her leg and his arm to remind them to hold each other while they try to get away.