7 a.m.—Departing Bogota airport. I like Bogota in May. The rain cools everything off, but not so much that I need to wear socks in my sandals. The city has a bouncy, enthusiastic...
Starting to sour on this whole Icarus thing. It's a bit less personal than the dances I am accustomed to create. I can speak to the Icarus story only so far: I know the reckless giddiness of feeling carefree, driving fast, tumbling through the air in a dance studio. I know how it feels to push too hard, to run into trouble because I couldn't let something go. Yet these are pretty abstract associations with this myth. Icarus speaks universally; I am more interested in speaking specifically.
I now have the idea of a dance set in a bedroom: the marriage dance. It would be a duet for Alex and Amanda. We could explore different aspects of sharing a bed/life with one person: sex, loneliness, getting into each other's space, feeling far apart when we're together, feeling close when we're apart. There's a lot of territory here to which I am personally committed. I wouldn't feel like I were faking a story just to put in a lot of lifts.
It sounds reminiscent of Closet Dances. Come to that, it sounds reminiscent of January Night. I fear that I only have one or two stories to tell. They are stories that I care about, however.
I have so many fears: my work isn't good enough, my instincts are all wrong, I'm just a big, dumb guy who should have been learning accounting instead of wasting all that time in the studio.... It's hard not to listen to them sometimes. But I don't even feel like I have a choice. Making dances has become compulsive. My inner critic is not enough to make me stop. (My lack of money may yet accomplish this one day.)
Photo by Bill Hebert.