I am a man who loves men, and I am proud to wear that uniform and fight for things like gay marriage, but I also look forward to the day when I can take that uniform off and just be me, a human being not defined by sexuality or religion or place or residence.

Randy Roberts Potts

I have become quite obsessed with this man, the openly gay grandson of Oral Roberts, the original and most famous tele-evangelist.

Language is never sufficient to describe the range and spectrum of human experience, and I am aware of the politics and currency of language, but for now, let us assume that I am a dancer.

Hijikata intentionally used words. His words didn’t always make sense, they often did not make sense, but he used them because they do have agency, and they do have power. Language is a part of the body. in many ways, butoh is an embodiment of language, just as language inhabits the body. As we frame our experience so are our experiences framed.

But words are not sufficient, and I don’t want to add to the emptiness of language, to the billions of words, spoken and written that are not mindful and do not contribute meaningfully to anything.

Meaning is subjective. Truth is similarly subjective.

How can we know?

What is a truthful connection? I don’t think that this is a real thing. What am I connecting to? A truthful inhabitation? A truthful embodiment?

How does the body lie? Does it lie in the same way that words lie. Is it the human that lies? The mind?

The body betrays the mind, and the mind betrays the body.

Or, is the body an advocate for truth?

To dance is not to create dance. To dance is to embody the body.

It is also not enough to say that the body is transforming under the influence of an image. The image does not influence the body. The body is inhabited by the image, and the image is inhabited by the body.

The body is the brain and the mind and the spirit.

The body thinks.

Octopus mind. In each limb is a brain, and in each brain there is a limb. They are connected through the tissue and the blood and the mucous and the cells. Each cell can react. Each cell can feel. Each cell can dance. The octopus has evolved separately from the human, its eyes are not human eyes. Its brain is not a human brain.

Our common ancestor was a spineless worm, swimming in a dark, warm sea. To get to the octopus, we must go back to the sea, back to the ocean, back to the water. But we can. We can spread out consciousness like the octopus so that each limb in independent and can think and feel for itself. Not the critical thought of the human brain, but the embodied thought of the octopus.

But we can’t go back to the octopus.

We must go back to the worm, and then go on a journey with the octopus. As our limbs separate from the body and the eye emerges, the brain diffuses and we feel with every inch of our skin.

It is not enough to believe.

It is not enough to be empty.

It is not enough to be dead.

It is only enough to be a body.

The world is beautiful, and the body knows it. When I see something beautiful, my stomach tightens, my body transforms and is ready to make love. It is ready to dance with the body of another. Maybe to dance is to make.

Nothing else matters but to love. Nothing else matters but to dance.

To pout, and to shrug and to fix ones hair, to pull in the stomach, to open the computer and take off the jacket. None of these things are real. To wear clothes. All that matters is to laugh and cry and shit and eat and cum.

And dance.

I dance backwards, sometimes slowly, some times quickly, and sometimes, not backwards at all. If I can dance back towards the ocean, I can dance forward to the cloud. If I go far enough in either direction I will meet the universe.

We are star people. Sufjan said it, but it is real. We are water. Water is the byproduct of the formation of stars. The universe could not be contained in one point, and so, from that first violent diffusion, came atoms and elements and gasses and masses and stars and planets and water and cells and man. Woman. Machine. Cloud.

Perhaps once we have left the body, we will gravitate together until we collapse, and explode and create a new universe.

I haven’t been very good at this writing game recently.

I went to Seoul in December, and on the way wrote down all of my secrets.

That was such an intense experience, which I have not entirely recovered from.

I am in a weird limin. I am homeless. I am in-between jobs. In-between lovers. I am waiting to hear if my Master’s research proposal was utter rubbish or not. I feel like I cannot start living this year yet, even though it holds so much promise and potential. I have projects to do. I have things to write about.

Nathan visited us for the festive season. That was very nice. That was also very weird.

I drank a lot, told people what I thought about them, spent lonely nights walking the streets, trying to figure myself out.

Nathan left as the waters rose.

I have to go and visit an old friend today.

Time passes, and now we are in Brisbane.

And I would rather spend today by the pool.

I’ll use that as my excuse for not posting in a while.

Listen to this instead.

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.

Surely it is just around the next corner. Or the next. Past the train station, past the cathedral.

Your friend’s face finally lights up as he spots an open door next to the entrance of what appears to be a student-run theatre.

Like an absurd assortment of gatekeepers, three young hipsters, two middle-aged men and one very fancy looking woman are smoking like chimneys and talking in rapid-fire Korean. They are huddled around a portable gas stove, sitting on dilapidated folding chairs in the shade of a potted plastic palm, and are sharing what looks to be a saucepan of clear broth with a few bean sprouts thrown in as garnish. As soon as it becomes apparent that you are hesitantly hovering, rather than moving down the road to the bright lights of the late-night shopping district, you are met with smiles and gestures that appear to suggest you enter.

You find yourself in what was once probably some kind of very small pawnbroker. The street-light coming through the grimy window dimly illuminates a room crammed full of junk. The only other light is cast by desk lamps perched precariously on piles of books, records, hi-fi’s, relics from another time. There is music playing in this cast-off jungle, spewing forth from a rude assortment of speakers variously sprinkled in amongst the mess. Your friend picks his way through the boxy undergrowth, towards a tiny counter slouched against the back wall. Your approach brings to life a tiny woman guarding an antique till. She greets you with an incline of the head and holds up two fingers – more a statement than a question. You acknowledge that there are indeed two in your party, and she uses a calculator to display to you the relevant cover charge. When all dues are paid, she motions with an outstretched palm towards a narrow gaping pit, partially obscured by a particularly precarious pile of records, and which on further inspection, contains a very steep set of stairs.

You descend in single-file and find yourself suddenly in a tiny, loud, hazy dungeon of a room. Party lights are strung at odd angles from the roof, providing only the dimmest of glows to see by. Lamps and televisions soundlessly displaying old Korean dramas offer the only other illumination. The owner of the venue is apparently quite a famous cinematographer who only opens it up when he is not on location. The walls are plastered with film posters in English and Korean, pasted to every surface with yellowed and crumbling sticky tape. Grimy kitschy, soviet-era paraphernalia is piled up against the walls, lined up on every ledge, filling every crevice. The accumulated detritus of 35 years in the business. Picnic tables, lounge chairs and milk crates provide surfaces for sitting and a giant umbrella, blown out as if caught unawares in a storm, flowers out of one table and meets the low ceiling, where it is swallowed by a sea of familiar faces. A sorry looking drum kit is wedged in one corner, and a wall of guitars, ukuleles, amps and other unidentifiable instruments in the other. These two fixtures bookend a cramped stage where the tangled mess of a sound system is set up, playing old-school Korean pop off a rickety record player.

A lone waitress makes sure you are seated and hands you a menu hand-written in Korean. The little marker-drawn illustrations make it clear that you have the choice of two kinds of beer (Hite / Cass) and two kinds of soju (Chom Chorom / Chamisul). She also asks in her adorably broken English if you would like tea or coffee. Everything about this place feels makeshift, improvised and special. A little slice of dirty, grungy heaven. The waitress places a bowl of what looks like styrofoam, but is probably puffed rice snacks, takes your order and leaves you to drink in your surroundings.

You get the feeling that everyone down here has been haunting this hole for years. There is a kind of comfortable familiarity about the place. Your wide-eyed fascination with every strange detail is met with warm smiles and encouraging nods from the locals. Slowly, the bunker fills up with a trickle of new faces taking their places under the sky, full of stars.

There is a little bit of a commotion. The owner is ousting some reluctant young men from their chairs and pushing them towards the stage. Unlit cigarette between his pouted lips, he leans over and fiddles with the record player and then finds a book of ‘Greatest Rock hits of the 1980′s’, and throws it at the tallest of the skinny white boys, trying to untangle a working guitar from the spiderweb of cable strung on the wall. You recognise them now. They are from a relatively good local band, but they look completely unprepared to strut their stuff under these conditions. It doesn’t stop the crowd cheering them on, some yelling out requests, and others starting to clap along, even though no one has started playing.

They sort themselves out with instruments that are unfamiliar, and more than a little out of tune. The boys manage to bash their way through some songs from the book, and are even able to squeeze in a few originals, which evokes an enthusiastic response from the proprietor who claps wildly and sings along to as much as he can make out. It’s a riot. Generally everything is a bit too loud, and a bit to trashy, but a whole lot of fun.

The impromptu gig comes to an abrupt close however as, at the conclusion of a rather rousing rendition of ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, the owner leans over and replaces the needle on the record, and returns to discussing animatedly with his table some of the finer points of the current bid for North-South reunification. The surprised musicians extricate themselves from the stage, and rejoin their party. You look down and realise that, out of nowhere, quite a large plate of dried squid has appeared, complete with lashings of chilli sauce and mayonnaise. Your mate assures you that it is safe to eat, but you order more beer just in case.

Suddenly you hear a loud voice, it seems to be making a noise somewhere in-between singing and yelling. Raspy, raw and full of emotion. A young man in an incongruous combination of skinny jeans and a traditional raw silk blouse has taken the stage and is singing in Korean…

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?

I think it has as much to do with the politics of language as it does with the way that we interpret the differences between ‘form’, ‘style’ and ‘genre’. I do not always use these terms mindfully, but I guess as it is brought up with some regularity, this is a good time for me to clarify my position.

From the reading that I have done, the terms ‘form’, ‘style’ and ‘genre’ are often used interchangeably. And where they are not interchangeable, they are used with no real consistency in what they refer to. I didn’t study drama education, so I am not sure what is taught in schools, but this is how I interpret the vocabulary in question (NOTE: At this stage, I am just jamming on ideas, and have no solid research to back me up except for the trusty dictionary on my dashboard).

Firstly, I see all human expression as fitting into some form of ‘family tree’ with a certain amount of convergence between the branches. Basically speaking, there is expression which is primarily vocal, or which is primarily physical. There are of course more than these two, but I am being deliberately simple. One of these convergences is text-based theatre. I think that in this way, you can look at theatre as a ‘genre’ of human expression. This view is backed by the dictionary definition of the word:

genre |ˈʒɒ˜rə| |ˈ(d)ʒɒnrə|

noun

a category of artistic composition, as in music or literature, characterized by similarities in form, style, or subject matter.

The last part of that definition is important. Form and style are presented in a list, without a definite hierarchy. In some ways I agree with this when talking about categorising performance, but I also see these terms as somewhat nested.

I approach the word ‘form’ from the direction of a physical artist. For me, a form is any practice with a series of repeatable techniques that result in a somewhat predictable outcome. Of course, the very nature of butoh is that it is irrational and unpredictable, but still, we train for a certain amount of technique. Suzuki Tadashi created his own ‘form’ of physical actor training. Classical ballet is a ‘form’ of dance. Taekwando is a ‘form’ of martial arts.

In this statement, I am using physical actor training, dance and martial arts as ‘genres’ of human expression. My use of ‘form’ in this way is supported by the dictionary:

form |fɔːm|

noun

1 the visible shape or configuration of something: the form, color, and texture of the tree.

• arrangement of parts; shape : the entities underlying physical form.

• the body or shape of a person or thing : his eyes scanned her slender form.

• arrangement and style in literary or musical composition : these videos are a triumph of form over content.

2 a mold, frame, or block in or on which something is shaped.

• a temporary structure for holding fresh concrete in shape while it sets.

3 a particular way in which a thing exists or appears; a manifestation : her obsession has taken the form of compulsive exercise.

• any of the ways in which a word may be spelled, pronounced, or inflected : an adjectival rather than adverbial form.

• the structure of a word, phrase, sentence, or discourse : every distinction in meaning is associated with a distinction in form.

This portion of the definition implies that there is something about ‘form’ that is connected to shape, arrangement and structure. All of which can be traced back to the nature of training or technique. This use is also reflected in butoh practice, where we often use the Japanese term ‘iigata’ (which can apparently be translated as ‘mould’) to describe any specific, repeatable shape which is then carried through space, or brought to life with the application of additional images. My understanding of this particular technique (first articulated to me by Maro Akaji of Dairakudakan) is one of the reasons I am connected to describing butoh as a ‘form’.

I then think of ‘genre’ as a collection of forms that can be grouped together. But within ‘form’, we also have a differentiation of ‘style’. For me, ‘style’  refers more to the different application of the technique of a form in relation to an intention, interpretation or even social and cultural background. My style of butoh is different from that of Maro Akaji, Tess de Quincey, Yumi Umiumare or Lynne Bradley.

style |stʌɪl|

noun

1 a manner of doing something : different styles of management.

• a way of painting, writing, composing, building, etc., characteristic of a particular period, place, person, or movement.

• a way of using language : he never wrote in a journalistic style | students should pay attention to style and idiom.

Of course, there is a certain amount of fluidity in these usages, depending on the resolution of your view.

Contemporary ballet is a ‘style’ of ballet made up of a combination of different ‘forms’ of dance such as classical ballet, modern, lyrical, jazz.

As new styles emerges however, they gradually become codified and perfected and may actually transition into a new form in and of itself, with its own series of techniques.

We see this in butoh, where a style called Body Weather, first described and practiced by Min Tanaka has shifted to become a somewhat codified form which can almost be seen as sitting outside of butoh. We could then say that Body Weather is a form of dance, and a style of butoh. Butoh is also a form of dance.

Genre, form and style for me are interconnected, and it depends on how specific you are willing to get as to which label goes where.