Monday, June 11, 2007

why i love dancers

A couple of weeks ago, after class, waiting for the bus with Anne, I asked her how she was doing. She said "not very well" - or was it maybe just a grimace - accompanied by such a flash of heartbreak across her face that I wondered if someone had died, if she had broken up with her boyfriend. But no, she had had a less than satisfactory class. And this little blip in her day was enough to put into question her whole day, her whole week, her life's choices.

I am reminded of the meaning of loving dance. The enslavement to a capricious lover. The little obsessive-compulsive rituals we go through in preparation for a visit that is sometimes late, sometimes non-existent, often unannounced. The distractions we create in order to tolerate the waiting. The waiting, the waiting. But then he arrives, and time stops.

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