A Dream

I had a dream that my father died. On a ship. My mother was with him but she survived. Barely a scratch on her. But he was dead. I remember receiving a photo on my cellphone from my sister of a series of photos - only two that I remember. The first one was of my father. He was in a suit. Well-dressed. But he was dead. It was from what looked like a ventilation system. He was inside, his body crouched. The viewpoint was from inside the vent system with the crown of his head facing the camera. The other picture was of my mother and her friend. The aftermath. She was looking at the camera with her friend. Both of their eyes were red, saying everything they could not. About how much they missed him. Even if he alienated everyone and complained about everything. We missed him. And I woke up, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. It was a dream, but it was everything I could not say.

When I danced in my room, I thought about this. What it felt like. The two photos that I remember. The one of my father. The one of my mother and her friend. And I tell myself that "Everything is Not Lost". I keep dancing, moving ever so slightly. But my moves lack what I want to communicate. Which is something that I cannot explain, cannot formulate. I am limited by the skill of language, by my body, by my movements. "Everything is Not Lost". So the song goes. So I move. So I begin to sing, looking at myself contorting. The next song comes on. "Life is for Living". And it was like a conversation I was having. Was it with my father? Was it with myself? I don't know. Does it matter? I try to leave but the song keeps on playing in its one-minute entirety. "My heart just aches when I think of...the things I shouldn't have said." What about all these things I couldn't say?

Why Do You Dance?

The prompt for my Butoh-based dance class: This is a very simple question. So simple, that it may be difficult to answer. As highly-complex, socially-trained animals, we tend to try and assign or create meaning out of everything. This often results in very overburdened experiences in terms of the way we see and think about them. What happens when you dance? Answer this question as you like. You can give a straightforward, literally descriptive answer. Or you can give a poetic or creative answer that tries to get to the visceral, intuitive core of your experience

My answer: I dance because I don't know how to. I dance because if I don't, something bad will happen. The world will stop turning. The world could end, turn upside down, and disappear. But if I were to keep dancing, I would stay alive. Even if everything around me turned into darkness and disappeared into nothingness, I would still be there. Dancing. Being off rhythm. But the dance continues. Sweat drips, my legs grow weary and tired, ready to give out from under me like bent straws.

But truly, what can stop me if I continue dancing? I remain alive- this breathing vessel of raw flesh, of complex transportation of blood. The blood that keeps my limbs moving in indiscernible directions, stretching to ephemeral heavens or writhing on the concrete ground beneath it.

I dance because I can. Because each movement is unique in its exact moment. Never will I make the same movement in the same moment. Even if I tried to emulate it, it'd never be the same. That movement and that moment has passed on, dissipated by the oncoming movement and moment.

I am not a dancer. Nor will I ever be. That is not my purpose. When I dance, I do not think of what it means to be a dancer. My mind, my body, my talent does not operate in that fashion. I only dance because I can. Dance, dance, dance.

Rant: Do I Impress You?

I was reading a friend's Facebook today in which he mentioned -under the "info" section" - that he is actually impressed by very few people. He also conditioned that statement by the preceding, "As harsh as it may sound...", showing his understanding of yes, it is a very harsh statement.

This is someone who I have the utmost respect for - someone who, on multiple occasions, I ( as well as many others) have stated as being one of the most sincere and nicest guys you could ever know. In other words, this is someone who impresses me immensely. I hope he takes my interpretation of his statement in the same manner I do. If he does, he truly "impresses" me.

Yes, I do think there are a lot...for lack of a better term, unimpressive people out there. There are a lot of rude, inconsiderate, and even selfish people. But really? Have you been so jaded to define the population by an arbitrary rubric of "impressive"?

I get it. The talented ones, right? The ones that hold an aura of mystique, of sheer brilliance. The ones who could hold the world in their hands, blow it away, and have it float back to them when beckoned. These are the Impressives. The Elites. The ones who are accountable for holding a standard by which everyone else is judged. And the cherry on top: they know it too.

I'm not impressed by those people. Their brilliance feigns ignorance. It breeds prejudice and releases the toxicity of rash judgment. A type of judgment that we all fall into on occasion, but no, this is different. This is a constant and consistent judgment of the character and actions of others without understanding circumstance.

You know who I'm impressed by? The ones who can smile after a really shitty day. The ones who ask "How was your day?" and genuinely, genuinely mean it. Cause dammit, those people are hard to find. The ones who will apologize for what they did wrong because they accept it. Because hell, they might not even be wrong. But they'll apologize for hurting someone's feelings. It's this lack of sensitivity that kills me, this lack of care and consideration for others.

What I mean to say is that "No, there is no one perfect". Truly no one. Just as there is no perfect movie, no perfect piece of art, no perfect novel. We all have our faults and perhaps, some more than others. But there are so many people out there who I appreciate and am impressed by.