It was one of those days. I woke up and nobody was home. My brother and my Dad had a shoot and so I had the house all to myself. I wasn’t feeling all so put together and decided to stay home. I started working and I came across one of my projects slowly going down the drain.
Actually, a lot of my projects are floating in transience. Power plays and delaying tactics are keeping my projects from moving forward and another project is pushing through but the script I wrote is transforming before my eyes into something I don’t recognize. There are a lot of promises and right now, I don’t want promises. I want to see it happening. I’ve been working so hard and trying to desperately meet all my deadlines. I think my work is good. But I pass my work and then… nothing. I hear nothing except news that things are delayed.
With not much to do, I watched a couple of episodes of So You Think You Can Dance and thought to myself, I’m alone at home, why not use all the empty space? I started to dance in the living room, attempting a poor attempt at contemporary dancing. My untrained body must have looked disgusting as I swayed, contorted, and made pathetic excuses of what were supposed to be pirouettes. I didn’t know I wanted to be a dancer until ten years after I was asked if I wanted to take dance lessons by my parents. I didn’t know there was a life in dance until I saw my first episode of So You Think You Can Dance ten years after that realisation. It has been torture ever since.
So I was dancing and there was no real joy. I realised, even without seeing what I looked like, I knew I was dancing without passion. I was moving my body to the music and I loved it that I was moving but the movement didn’t mean anything. On one episode that I saw, the choreographer was telling the dancers that they had to put a purpose to the movement. You have to know why you are raising your leg, or there has to be a reason behind each kick, each sway, each fall, and jump.
So I created a fictional story about myself and a love interest. There’s someone I like very much but he’s a total unreachable goal. But I’m highly creative and imaginative and in my detailed fiction we do meet and he does feel something for me. But there are complications. Even my fantasies are ruled by my moods. It’s totally fiction but it is directed and guided by truth.
And then I started dancing. First I used Kosheen’s All In My Head and then I switched to a couple of Charlotte Martin songs. Life Vest (which has become a personal favourite as of late). Tremble. And then Language of God. And then, I danced to Katie Thompson’s version of Heaven is a Place on Earth. By this time, the fiction was so real in my head that I felt like I was dancing differently. The dance, the movement became a language. I was expressing all I could feel over this person. Everything that I felt for this guy, by all respects a fictional person, and I danced what I felt. When I raised my arms, it’s because I was calling out to him. When I kicked and jumped back, it was because I was afraid of him. When I fell, it was because I was afraid I was going to lose him.
And I couldn’t see myself. There’s no mirror in my living room but somehow I knew that I was dancing better. My technique sucks and I banged myself pretty badly on the floor after one particularly awkward landing. But it was there. The movements had purpose and I was laying my soul on the floor, laying all my cards out on the table. Since the guy is practically fictional, he was also practically there. Present. Watching me. He could see me and he could see this dance and he understood everything that I felt for him.
I laid it all down there. Ooh baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on Earth sang Katie Thompson, her voice emanating from the gut and driven by a piano and strings. By the end of the song I was on the floor, my hands lifted up at chest level, palms to the ceiling. That was where my heart was. It was in my hands and I was offering it up to him.
I was on the floor, in this weird position, breathing heavily. Perspiration running down every part of my body. I got up, cooled off and took a shower.
Then I started crying. First, I was just overtaken by the emotions. Then it was like a dam burst and I was just crying. The frustration. The loneliness. This feeling that nothing is moving forward. I was overcome by the pointlessness of it all. The water ran through me and I was crying and crying. I knew I was alone at home so I could sob.
I came out feeling a little lighter. I was purging. I told my father when he got home and he said I was doing a Being exercise, an actor module by Eric Morris, which he teaches. It was a class I took. He said I was purging. I was looking for a release.
I was dancing in limbo. In this state where nothing is moving and there is no future. And I know that I have said, many times, that I live in the moment. I live for today. That I have no future. I didn’t today. Today I tried to look at the future and saw nothing. Just a vast emptiness.
I feel so empty. Where do I get all my poems? All my stories? The cup is not full yet it keeps spilling.
I really have to start taking dance classes.