| friendlyfoe4u さんのプロフィールthe crystalフォトブログリスト |  ツール  ヘルプ |
|
12月2日 Dancing QueenI begin as a seed, stirring slowly within me. There are some movements I cannot control, and therefore, I let them be. My external form remains still but I can feel my blood dancing on a beat. Blood has a strange knack of improvising-- it quickens or slows down according to the heartbeat. And there is me, engulfed by the music and the beat of the piano. It is difficult to simply liberate like Howard's fingers tapping the black and white keys. Slowly, my body longs to make the smallest of the movements. I roll my eyes without opening my eyelids and circle my toes. Once the muscles begin to move, it is very difficult to stop. I can hear the heartbeat slowly increasing. The music from the piano becomes increasingly heavier and dominating. Yet, it is slow. Music tends to affect movement greatly. There is a tension when actions don't comply with the music. It is as though music and dance are two colours. When they match, they form the most beautiful harmony but when they differ, a strange syncopated hybrid is formed that although stems from disharmony, stands out. Perhaps, this is why slow motion and cha-cha music create an interesting combination. As I move in slow motion with Emily, on cha-cha music, I can feel my muscles tighten. They feel ''refrained." The disharmony between the dance and the music creates a tension, as if someone is laughing at my sorrows. But when the music is slow, the actions seem to flow (just like words that rhyme) and there lies the 'true' improvisation. The mind ceases to think too much and the body takes over. My shoulders stiffen up and then fall down towards the floor, adhering to gravity. My fingers are as far away from each other as they can be like those of a blind child feeling snow for the first time. My hips bend down and my neck tilts to the side. The insides of my calves want to feel the snow too. The music imitates the sound made by the snow falling on the ground and the feet dance to the rhythm. When the body falls in the natural cavities around me, the mind stops to think. It does not matter whether I look like a lunatic on the loose, or the fat on my belly shows or my hair is blinding me. It doesn't matter- as long as my eyes are closed, nobody else can see me and the music is in control. Although I feel like a slave to the music, it is absurdly but truly liberating. Music is powerful. Bala Devi Chandrashekhar, a Bharatanatyam dancer performed to Chekov's music. Ordinarily, I would assume that Indian classical dancing and Chekov don't go together, nonetheless, her actions seemed in perfect harmony with the music. There was no tension in her movements. In fact, her armlet kept slipping off her arm and she found dance moves that were graceful and concealed with the music. Sometimes the simplest actions we do every day can become dance when the music is on. The music continues to play as I watch movements around me. Suddenly there is an untold story that is narrating itself to me in the form of a movie. An old man raises his hand at another man. This other man raises his hand too and his neck shoots up quickly. His feet change the direction in which they are moving and the two bodies of the old men come close but stop before any contact is made. It seemed tragic that they didn't touch but they were smiling. Contact is something that can relieve or cause tension. Contact makes me tense. Individually, I feel liberated; with a partner, I feel bound and uncomfortable. In a group, trapped. Ah, where is that hand going to touch me. Oh, wait now, this is intimate. You can't touch me here. Why are you making me touch you in places I don't want to touch you? If I could have it my way, only a finger tip would be touched. With my partner's finger. But then, something happened. My partners are not strangers any more. A handshake and then an arm-link, and then a leg-link and then a hug, seems perfectly normal. My head can rest on their shoulders as we dance. As they lift me, their hands touch parts of me that surprise me. Despite clothing covering me, I feel skin touching my skin. I sit on their shoulders and they pass me down, cold, warm, big, small hands touching my skin as I am thrown. The heart leaps every time I am thrown. My feet have left the ground and I am entirely on their mercy. I have absolutely no control over body or my thoughts. My thoughts are dancing and so are my hands. Straight ahead of me, I see the empty aisle of the chapel and it appeals to me. I am not getting married. I am not dying. I am alive and dancing. My eyes close and the cold of the chapel brushes against my face. I can feel each and every contact point, connecting me to those supporting me. My fingers wander like branches of a tree and attempt to capture some of the cold air but they remain dancing instead of stopping into a fist. The music echoes in the chapel and governs my movement, all involuntary at this point. The music commands, "Delight!" Up in the air, unafraid of falling, that was the beginning of delight. I take a deep breath and keep laughing. My head, my hands and my shoulders break into fits of laughter. Delight. It was all part of the choreography. |
|
|
