The autumn beech hedge kaleidoscoped by rain on the windowpane. Tatters of little scented pink rambler roses, blooming fiercely in November bluster. In the room sandalwood and vanilla, this small candle's flame, a dozen bodies waking to this Monday, and once again this dance: in and out of relationship with self, other, life, death, life. There is the beat and only the beat, the dance and only the dance, the cycles that rise and fall and rise.
The dancers' bodies shake the air
A passing train shakes the air
The steady stream of photons shakes the air
The proximity of the moor
A sparrow's cheep
'Getting close by going far away,' croons the male voice, and I smile because I have been thinking lately again of just this: how two bodies need differentiation before they can really join. 'Getting lost to find my way back home.'
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