Love Move

I love to move.  Have loved it since I realised.  Since child self could follow with mind the sensation of being in moments through change.  Being in body through change through movement.  Through moments in space through joints and bending.  Then plies and tendus.  And finite litanies of changes and pas de bourree.  And the feeling of it has always been the thing.  Where it can lead, how it opens and repels and changes the mind self reflecting as it goes.  Palms bounding off thighs and sweaty tops and body struggles and the reflective eyes watching this body this body that does.  And again, it does, who?  Who is this body that moves?  What a blessing, moving being.  Being watched sometimes while moving.  Which can change the presence of mind. The presence of mind movement being watched changes present eyes.  Yet.  The thrill it can give to take that vulnerability of audience-performer mind games and take the ugly route.  Be funny ugly.  Especially if a girl and expected to want to be pretty sexy entrancing.  To break unexpectedly moment by micro moment and creak into colliding modes of ugly courage.  


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