This is an open letter to the autobots. I know I've annoyed every single one of you to different degrees at different numbers of points in time, and so before things get irreparably worse, or especially if they have already fallen into an irreparable state, here is a little bit of catharsis, to express my gratitude and appreciation which are necessarily inexpressible in real life, since I am quite a guy sometimes, knowing that most of you probably won't read this, although the party involved in the most broken down and most likely irreparable relationship probably will.
I will here concur with Yvonne, who in a text the night before said, "i <3 your cast. Awesome people and dancers." There is no other time when I could have got this group together, partly because I am only ready now, as are you, and you would have still been a foetus before this. There is no one else I would ask. This is my dream team, in a sense, not because we are the tightest dance- or life-wise, but because I know things get rough, and I need people whom I admire as dancers, and more importantly, deeply respect as persons, to cushion the brunt of this emotional wreck. Thank you for dealing with my rubbish. This post would have been the easiest to write when things were going very well. Even though last night's rehearsal wasn't the best, and I am now dizzier than ever, I am more thankful than ever for all you have given of yourselves. Roll out tomorrow!
21.5.10
17.5.10
To cure the soul by means of the senses
Perfect weather follows a perfect storm. The flood has subsided. Moisture clings not to the skin but to the ground. All is cleansed, calmed, quieted, conquered by water; even the sun. The air is cool and invigorating. A draught caresses the forearms. A wintry tune tinkles in the ears. The road is clear.
*
A mug of mocha art may not say very much, but its warmth gloves the hands. As the vessel tilts to and fro, the brown tide drifts in obedience. Flow: the liquid spreads, bittersweet swirls flourish on its surface, multiplying like curly vines, before the molten mass crashes snug on the tongue. Ebb: the waters recede hastily, the gnarled figures are erased, the warmth grows mild.
*
A mug of mocha art may not say very much, but its warmth gloves the hands. As the vessel tilts to and fro, the brown tide drifts in obedience. Flow: the liquid spreads, bittersweet swirls flourish on its surface, multiplying like curly vines, before the molten mass crashes snug on the tongue. Ebb: the waters recede hastily, the gnarled figures are erased, the warmth grows mild.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)