Monday, January 6, 2014

Song & Dance

A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.

The more I move, the dancer within just seems to channel herself. I found myself stretching up onto my toes and twisting and twirling as I worked the other night. I found myself possibly too delighted in disturbing the early morning silence as my boots rhythmically clicked away at the pavement while walking to the train for a shoot. In the kitchen cooking, I found myself tap dancing a routine I learned in 1996 and performing pirouettes in triplicate as I waited for the water to boil. Dance has been in my blood since birth.

Though there are moments in time where I exist as a chatterbox, flexing my vocal chords is still something I struggle with. How does a being who is fluid in movement learn to utilize that same capacity for fluidity into sound? How does a dancer learn to sing? I played the flute for a time. I still may be able to read music if I tried. I played bells and I sang in choir when I was younger; our group of 5 even won an all city competition. I have always had an ear for sound. I can match a note I hear on a keyboard with ease but when it comes to producing my own sound I often struggle.

Yesterday I remembered being knocked in the throat while playing football and though it rendered my throat somewhat damaged momentarily, my movement was what mattered. I was swift and caught the ball. Movement, at first glance seemed to supersede sound in importance. Whales came to mind earlier yesterday before the football memory and they very much sing and vocalize. Yet their voice is also a means for echolocation, much like the bats I saw feeding later in the day. Their sound is what guides their movements. As a dancer, is my dance actually my song? Perhaps as my voice has become so silent externally, it's become mostly internal and there isn't really a need to learn to "sing" at all...

January 6th
I was a dancer all along

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