Protected: Oh Life!
Your friend promises you that this place is real. He found it, he says, after quite a raucous night of eating a bit too much barbecued pork, and drinking just a bit too much sweet-potato wine. In fact, it is all he has talked about for weeks and if he could only remember exactly where it was, he asserts that you will not be disappointed.
The problem is, he can’t remember there being a sign on the door, and regardless, he never did find out what the place was called.
I have decided to start writing again. This decision has been precipitated by the fact that I am preparing a research proposal at the moment, and there is such a huge amount of writing associated with this task that may just waste away in the rabbit warren of email conversations and notebooks that I seem to accumulate. Some of the critical feedback I have been receiving from my supervisor, as well as my close friends and colleagues has resulted in quite a few lengthy rants on many different topics. Some of which I will unleash on the small number of people that read this blog.
So here goes.
This first article is an extension of a discussion that Nathan and I sometimes have about weather or not butoh can be seen as a form, or a style. This is also a conversation I have had with others, and for now, I think I can pretty fairly articulate my position.
NATHAN: I know this is an age-old conflict – but can you explain to me why you consider butoh a form and not a style?
It is apparent that other creatures also dance and sing; and like us they do it for sex and territory. Perhaps migrating whales sing for deep companionship. But we contrive to do it. Imaginatively and logically; and we also do it for the transcendent spirit of the act itself. To express from deep within, our joy and sadness, our han and jong.
i take my time, sit on my hands, close my mouth, and wait. i try not to return your gaze, just in case. instead i squint. maybe you’ll mistake my stare for the blinding summer sun. summer retreating. summer advancing. snow melting. leaves falling. i love you when the seasons change. when i am least attractive. body struggling to keep up with the earth’s wobbling rotation. struggling to stand still, straight, narrow and not fall. into your arms, into your bed.
i am patient. the shy one. running to catch up. and when everyone else is tired of the chase, the race, i finally decide to to move. to dance. to live. out of place but finally. exciting, reckless, funny, charming, cute, spontaneous, trashy.
except, i’d rather just be in bed. with you.
