(title borrowed from Haruki Murakami’s novel, Dance, Dance, Dance)
my body is no longer a peaceful part of myself. it hates me. i have stopped giving it sustenance. art that is movement, movement that is art. i have left it to rot in the banalities of dailiness. i have stopped dancing for two semesters. which is to say my limbs have lost their purpose, which is to say my feet drag chains of steel.
somebody said that i don’t have a concept of time, of its linearity. that’s why i am open to starting from the bottom again never mind the years ahead of me, never mind the years past that were devoted to this craft. like carla korbes featured here in a creative video, i sense the lack and the emptiness and the staccato of gracelessness when i miss ballet classes in a row. what more a semester or two? my body slaps me once or twice to rouse me from this sluggishness. thus the surprising tap while gorging on cake, the pinch while i’m about to take a bath. my memory and my body’s memory are at war.
i will never be a ballerina. i am two and a half decades late to fulfill this dream, but i still wish to pursue learning the craft, strengthening my muscles, enduring pain that seeps in the very marrow of my bones. when i am alone with dance, i can lodge my secrets deeper and further. with every jump, push, spin, leap, and twist, fabrics and spaces stretch and yawn open where i deposit my secrets. my secrets are like the twelve dancing princesses. once they are barred from dancing, life slips away. which is to say dance is as close to my spirit as poetry and music. which is to say the things that keep me alive make noise, claim silence, and straddle life with gestures. which is to say now is the time to move, move as if my very life depends on it. which is to say Yes, it does.