a late hour

November 14, 2011 § 2 Comments

In another room a Canadian voice reads a much loved tale from a spinning CD,  the daughter sleeps and the dog lies curled like a bean at the foot of the bed. In this room, the mover leans back in the chair feeling a curve of wood against her shoulder blades. She folds her arms against the softness of her belly, closes her eyes and notices the dry sting of tiredness. A clock ticks. The body breathes. Then, with the incoming tide of sleep, sensations begin to disolve.


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§ 2 Responses to a late hour

  • She moves as if a dancer of aincient japan, unaware of what she wil do next, the slow precision mesmerizes her. Were she of a fanciful nature – she would think of past lives. But no, she thinks of cells and the oneness with all.. and how her body simply flows from one movement to next- internal choreography. Her hands come up to her face and tears wet her eyes for the struggle that life is…unexpected tears from deep inside her. They open fan like to her side, legs steping and supporting, moving through honey. Prosaic. Not faniciful we deal with what we are given at this early morning hour.

  • Words resonate and are underlined in the text of my mind: internal choreography as if directed by an interior wisdom even through the struggles over which we have no say; hands opening fanlike. The geisha is in full focus again, the swish of kimono silk, the graceful tilt of head, the mystery of the eyes through a mask of white face powder, mystery that leads me back to the oneness with all since i recognise her movement, posture, her expression, her grace.

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