Danseur Ignoble: Back on the Bus
There’s something deeply satisfying about the long, golden light of an October morning at this latitude.
I live in Kentucky now, but I’m a Yankee by birth and long heritage (one of my maternal great aunts has been known to make noises about “those Mayflower upstarts;” her side of the family — Québécois, Métis, and Iroquois with deep pre-Mayflower roots in this continent — still only half-jokingly regards the English as a bunch of arrivistes). New England suffuses my blood; informs my bones — and here, now, briefly, this glorious light reminds me of home.
The memory of bones runs long and deep.
It’s good, also, to be back in the rhythm of my normal routine, heading to Monday class. It’s good to be wearing one of those ridiculous outfits in which we arrive at class on cool mornings; good to be stuffing apples in my face as quickly as possible between busses.
Curiously, even though part of me has been bathing itself in chagrin, selectively recalling all the worst parts of my audition (seriously, sometimes my brain is like an obnoxious roommate who won’t turn off the TV), another part of me feels significantly more confident as a dancer simply because I got up there yesterday and tried (okay, the one really precise and gorgeous turn that Denis caught on video doesn’t hurt, either).
I suppose in part it’s a function of suddenly having this very concrete goal — I am making a dance, and I know it will be a good one once I nail down the choreography. It will force me to home my technique to a degree that probably should seem daunting, but doesn’t.
And even if it isn’t selected for this performance, I will keep working on it, finish it, and bring it somewhere; do something with it.
Anyway, I’m almost to class, so that’s it for now.