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Sourcing Dance

The source of life is the source of dance. I can only ask to participate in either. The joy and the fire are gifts that recreate me every moment.

The correctness of my movement does not matter as much as where the movement came from and how much of an echo the movement sends back into me as a human system.

The echoes of my dancing collaborate with my freshest creation of myself to become more than I can imagine.

I want to say that dance is the doorway.
Yet If I do not approach the doorway with humility and awe, distraction and addiction replace both the joy and the fire that dance offers.

The source of life is the source of dance. I can only ask to participate in either. The joy and the fire are gifts that recreate me every moment.
Tim Hurst 07/01/17

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Like a Dancer

I Join the creation of myself, the delight, the balance, the reach.

I Join the love of the moment that is creating me with you, all of you.

I Join the subtle rise and fall of life becoming more and then less.

I Join the building of strength that is me in perpetual motion.

I Join the nuance of qualities carrying me into worlds of never ending surprise.

I Join my listening cells for every opportunity to catch a wind into more life.

I Join my alternating focus between building my know how and exploding the moment beyond everything I know.

I Join myself in assembling a focus that recognizes the variation between joy and distraction.

I Join the rhythm of my trillions of waves hoping in the rise and riding the pauses of flight.

I Join my millions of counter spirals to my closest and nearest destinations.

I Join my dearest melodies to experience the echoes of myself amongst friends and foes.
Tim Hurst 07/01/1

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Marroquin Performance

To The Dancer
After seeing Sharon Marroquin’s Las Cuatros Estaciones: A Story of Human Trees.

When I experience your creation, my neurons not only mirror a creation, my mirror is of you, of each performer, connecting everything.

Thank you for the bravery of your dance to touch the anguish of a repeated life, the resplendence of clarity, the despair of conflicting lives, the freshness of new birth.

A scientist can record the pathways in you, in me, mirroring every second of your creation.
Yet you and I are the experience of everything connecting, an experience beyond any pathway.

My mirroring of your creation creates a garden of seedlings exponentially unique in myself. Together we create a fresh garden of seedlings that create structures that connect us all in unique ways.

We build worlds with each dance that speak for themselves and create fresh worlds.
Tim Hurst. 03/24/17

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As Holy Sites Go Poem

Deborah Hay brings together two masters of dance to connect the unconnectable.  Adaptation by Jeanine Durning and Ros Warby.  Poem by Tim Hurst

Two Explorers highly tuned to slight movement, to fainter sound, to tiniest molecular modulation.  Two Explorer’s eyes are seismic readers of universes unseen and seen.  Two Explorers in interplay too tuned to toy with thoughts and ploys.

Two side by side.  Two approaching and apart.  Two adjunct and adjacent.  Two pretzeled and knotted.  And afterwards observing, being aware, moving reflections, maybe separation, maybe embarrassment, maybe compassion, maybe exhaustion.

And to say a word about myself as audience with my slight perceptual abilities.  At open, my word was “No,” no to relinquishing my version of personal interaction, no to entering my breath, no to allowing the two before me to become their exploration.

I could not fathom eyes that only explore.  I could not imagine bodies that only respond together.  I was not prepared for the intensity of so many universes in communion.

Yes, points of darkness placed throughout the experience allowed my system to reset itself and the softness of my “Yes’s” slowly overtook me.

And oh yes, the songs came as gentle breezes to my parched eyes as they waited to connect pure joy beneath my lids to the delight of living in the presence of other universes.

Oh yes, the song that only yesterday in the solo performances came singularly across the open plain, today the song comes from two separately unique universes of indeterminate origin.

And the song of two comes once and twice and more, each song’s return caresses yet another layer of liquid that I call my body.  The songs come as if from a canyon rim warm with nature’s touch of life.  Each of two songs tentatively meet finding dissonance as a first caress, then they fly freely echoing and joining and conversing.  Our Two Explorers are embodied in their harmonic convergence and dis-convergence, their sounds in air emulating the touch of their multiple inner and outer universes.

What events propelled the Two Explorers to opposite walls of the space?  Only a magician could explain.  And from where came the dings and dongs tricking the audience with Jeanine’s hot lighted dance at one wall and Ros’ standing dance on the other.  Our eyes as audience dart back and forth to discern the slight of hand that turned to be a foot and a finger involved in clanging metal sounds.

Yes, my “Yes’s” overcame my initial inertia and I became duly overwhelmed moment by moment with Ros’ exploration of Jeanine’s finger pointed into Ros’ eye, with ethereal shoe taps preceding the trail of here to there and to not being here at all,  with the two in free fall, one digesting agony in inverted space while one is regurgitating with lips almost touching the floor.

Almost too overwhelming was the immense multiplicity of Two Explorers interrupting pattern after pattern, embarking again and again to interrupt what must seem like the sheer face of treacherous peaks, crevas after crevas.  And then more overwhelm came for me to accompany the two as they break all bridles and like colts run fleetingly across the great expanses of our minds joined in this journey.

And as I gasp for air to fund this free run, the two are running willingly towards their backs, with the joy of their backs splashing through the air, side by side, eyes and foreheads and hearts in union.

Another free fall must come and a song and three words come spoken deeply.  Our Two stand together facing their universes and ours.  The lights go black.

In the darkness, the memory of Our Two Explorers falling and rising holds us as audience in awe.  The final rise comes from us as we grant the two a long patient silence in the darkness before we exude what inept sounds and applause we can muster.