This makes two times I’ve seen the Sanspointe Dance Company and meant to write a more traditional piece, yet been inspired to bounce off in a different direction. Which makes me wonder if they’re doing something over there that may be the creative equivalent of a whack on the side of the head.
Maybe watching modern dance can be healing or otherwise good for you. Or making a point to see something that you’re not accustomed to seeing. Coming in contact with other people’s creativity and using it to propel or rebound yourself in new directions. Or maybe, it’s something particular about the Sanspointe shows that sends me to unexpected, new places.
Y’all, I enjoyed just about all of the performance – especially the intense catfighting, the zombie farmgirls, your begloved and armored Stepford socialites, and your use of live music from Abram and Sarah.
Language Fails
O Dancers,
How your life must feel different
From mine.
Daily opportunities to stretch
The muscles and boundaries
Of the body,
While I’m mostly planted
In the language,
Almost motionless,
Just tapping my feet or
Puttering through my thesaurus.
Is there any parallel in movement
To the way someone just
Tinkers with words?
You must think so differently
From me.
Do you see snippets
Of motion and movement
Everywhere,
Like I listen
Everywhere
For compelling words and phrases?
Creativity, for me,
Seems connected to my tongue and
I talk it out or
Communicate it out with someone,
Listening to myself speak
To mine any gems
From the waterfall and mostly
Blah-blah whatevers
Of whatever I’ve said.
Does a dancer’s creativity sprout
From attentiveness
To her own moves?
Do you sometimes stand up from a chair,
Or trip over one,
And think to yourself,
“Oh, that might be really . . .”
What would you even say?
“poignant”? “graceful”? “beautiful”?
Something imperfect like “good”?
Language fails.
Can you barely resist
Your internal need to move when,
For some reason,
You’re forced to stay still,
Like a drummer
Who can’t help himself
From fiddling around
Once he’s handed some sticks,
Or like I habitually strum
When I pick up my guitar?
I imagine dancers as
Rarely truly at rest or
At least, they stay
Cattishly aware
Of hands, feet, and positioning
In the same way
You’ll rarely catch me using words
Anywhere whatsoever
That weren’t scrutinized and edited
Two, three, or more times.
Could I capture
Even an inkling
Of what it’s like to
Exist in your world
If I keep trying
To write about how you
jUM—P!,
sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide,
and spi\I/i\I/i\I/in?
Thanks to Shellie Chambers and Sanspointe for having me out and being genuinely and uniquely inspiring and fun.
If your friend visits Japan
Yet she brings back
So they arrive
You won’t know
Or whether