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Where is My Delight?

I meet nephew of almost three at the waters edge.
He says his full name, three of them.
I dunk myself to remember the entirety of my history in three names.

We stand eye to eye in the water. His smallest bounce delighted me to follow. A little more bounce, him then me. Bouncing now in slightly deeper water, our smiles just above waters surface.
Our eyes shining. Our heads beaming at bottom and at top of the bounce.

Bouncing moves us across the pool. He notices. I just follow. Now he bounces backwards across the pool. I follow still one and a half feet away.

His smile enters the water now and on the rising bounce, he says, “I am happy.”

Out of concern, someone hands him a tube of floating sponge. He touches one end. I touch the other. He bounces backwards. I follow. At pool’s edge i pull the tube and we quickly cross the pool. His feet adjust his bounce in ways I can not see.

I make a crunching sound as the tube hits the edge of the pool. Some yell comes out of me meaning, “your turn to pull me.” He pulls and bounces us back across the pool. I float, follow his pull, and subtly tug the tube and us out of deeper water.

He examines the hole in the end of the tube. I make a sound in the other end. Laughing, he makes a sound in his end.

Adults arrive and nephew has to go home for bedtime.
Tim Hurst 07/01/18

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Who Move I Poem

Who do I Move? The I of Nature do I move?
Everything a curve that returns to myself? A replica of every curve of my thoughts, my motion, my direction, and my hope.
Everything a rejuvenating wave creating space beyond itself?
Every fractal a varying upon a simplicity? A simplicity taking centuries to unearth?

Who do I Move? The I of tranquility do I move?
Every move a suspension of harmony and disharmony? An extension of myself echoing in a vastness beyond my encased storage space.
Everything a heart rending recognition of every cell of life regenerating every other cell of life.

Who do I Move? The I of my imprint do I move?
Every move a seal of my full and complete spectrum of life?
Every collapse of my fear blossoming an anticipation beyond any human trust?

Who do I Move? The I of my stillness do I move?
Every curve continues for me to follow? Standing alone reflecting my replicas, my unities of life upon life, my crumpled wishes speaking in my ears.

Who do I Move? The I of love do I move?
This love of every move, is this the life I join as the fastest roaring river?
This love of every life, is this the vastness I refuse to understand?
Tim Hurst 09/27/17

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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.

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What's a dancer's perception?

Deborah Hay choreographed Fire to empty the dancer of previous perception.  Adapted and performed by Ros Warby.  Poem by Tim Hurst

Deborah Hay is committed to countering structure with the structure of infinitude.

Here in Austin, we return with her once again to experience the excellence of her movement, the excellence of her attention, the understanding of the full response of body in space.

Here before me is dancer, Ros, bared to basic white leotard and white head bandeau.  White bare movement carries me where I knew not, to a clarity of line broken and unbroken, bent and rebent toward line of life.  Stripped of intention, the bareness of life glows and shows clearly the stones on which we chew.

Dancer Ros’ eyes seek cells quirky pathways.  Her unity of body quickly spotlight patterns of mind and body. Body parts wiggle out of habitual bridles interrupting movement patterns.  Aberrant noises signal the escape from patterned movements hiding under the wires of dancer Ros’ cared for attention.  Each body part is under examination and in the process mouth and cheeks and face and neck take a long unscripted journey through what must be reminiscent of a hurricane. Falls into a white abyss may follow and certainly songs.

Seeing, feeling, being, the chasm of my brain splays open letting whiteness spill inwards and outwards.  The simplicity of the dancer Ros allowing all to be seen totally disarms me.  Simply speaking these words, I must acknowledge that I as audience am being seen as well.

Sharing the space with the dancer Ros and with Deborah has the quality of the song she sings, an infinitude of clarity riding the moment asking only to see and to be seen.  Where the dancer Ros travels can only be called dimensions or universes yet the simplicity of her sharing every process so visibly is inspiring.  Dancer Ros takes us into the seen worlds beyond the cell to embrace the fractile, into the unimaginable connection of our ancestry with planetary molecules, and into the unseen worlds of which we would rather not speak.

Seems so absurd to say yet the simplicity of the human connection to life is visible here in the dancer Ros as she attends to all these universes within and outside herself.  She assumes nothing, no absurdity, no importance, no comedy, no bondage to past present or future.  And how can it be that all this simplicity can be seen.

The vulnerability of the dancer is complete.  As audience, I the seer enter vulnerability completing some kind of union.  The basis of the vulnerability is not knowing and yet knowing and attending to the complete spectrum of seen and unseen.  The dancer’s vehicles of movement, stillness, and song give us the opportunity to stand in the moment together where our vulnerabilities guide us to listen and to see.

Within this vulnerability, Deborah is committed to breaking the patterns of mind and body.  Dancer Ros moves seamlessly through attending to pattern, connecting to pattern, holding pattern in view, cleansing pattern, celebrating patterns release, testing new clean space, resting in new clean space, collapsing when necessary. 

My memory can not hold the passing processes and grasps only a few images of awkwardness and clarity, moments of regurgitation or satisfied stillness. 

Only songs hold a place in my memory.  Somehow my brain comprehends the songs vulnerability, the open exploration, the balance of courage, fear, gentleness and boldness.

For me as audience, realizations and reflections break through constantly.  The dance is insisting that my attention move through frozen patterns of my mind and body.  In the visibility and vulnerability of the dance, my intentions are broken and I can not hang on to what is frozen and hardened within me.  The dance is asking me to recalibrate at every level.

The feeling is like being on the ocean where I experience myself on one wave at a time.  The memory of the wave melts into the memory of every wave.  The immensity of the entire sea is overwhelming and calls me to recalibrate.  I like the dancer send down echoes to the bottom of the sea.  What resounds baffles me and opens me to vulnerability and exploration.  With each new wave I choose to recalibrate, to regurgitate, or I crawl back in my cave to lick my cherished wounds so that I can reassure myself that I am in control.  Only one look at the enormous waves of the ocean confirms that I am only a speck on a spectrum.  So it is as I see Deborah’s dances.  To cleanse or not to cleanse is always the question.

Dancer Ros as all dancers with Deborah Hay are claiming a necessity to enter life by sampling and savoring all reality known and not known, seen and not seen.  As a willing audience participant, I can only respond with, “Thank you.”

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What's a Dancer's Reality?

Deborah Hay choreographed No Time To Fly as instances of non-linear reality. Adapted and performed by Jeanine Durning.  Poem by Tim Hurst

From the outset of No Time to Fly, I felt the three presences actively expanding the space.  One presence is the dancer Jeanine.  She bubbles upon us in exuberant lightness of a child.  She wears black shorts and black top.  The second presence is a very real sense of Deborah taking each step bold or quiet.  And the third is the tragic comedian slowly and abruptly cracking open the attic chest spilling the ancestry of each person present.

As with any tragic comedienne, the costume plays its character role.  On Jeanine is a luxurious smoking jacket golden and glistening in perfect character to carry the likes of Red Skelton and other truth tellers going back to our earliest caves and cook fires.

Jeanine is the ultimate trickster trained to travel the tumultuous inner rivers of never ending life.  She tricks me over and over to follow what I think is a story when actually the time line is Jeanine and Deborah totally savoring each morsel of this meal we call life.

When I think I know what I have just seen, Jeanine switches; she plays dead; she flips the light switch; or she takes a turn with the swagger of a Durante or Gleason.  And each time as hard as I try to stay awake, before my eyes can refocus, Jeanine ascends from the dead, appears from the dark, or charges through the gates of pity leaving my body aghast in surprise.

And not least of the surprises are the moments of quiet repose, moments held not in performance but in reverence for the moment.  My eyes must unhinge deep within my psyche to allow these moments to enter.  I might as well be floating in aTexas river or languishing beneath a cottonwood tree listening watching its leaves dance in the wind.

And while I am negotiating with myself to allow this ease, Jeanine has moved her focus to follow other cells in other directions and I am called to join.

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Ballet Necessity poem

Ballet brings me to the essentials of a Multiple dimensional paradise with Directional accelerations, Surprising anticipations, Multiple torques and crossings, Awakenings of electrical pathways long sense forgotten.

Ballet brings me to the essentials of  Multiple dimensional rejuvenation with Momentum of intimacy, Excellence of vulnerability, Unionof personality.

What more can I ask?

 

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Samurai Ballet Teacher

My ballet teacher is a Samurai.  Long tradition of the broad stance.  Breadth of knowledge of inhale and exhale.  Attuned senses to rhythms of breeze and storm.  Calibrated personalities from fierce to receptive.

What more can I ask of a teacher than to bring me into these well worn and infinitely changing moments of splendor.

 What more can I ask of myself than to enter with full exuberance even as my brain and body fail to understand the necessities of stalking stillness in circular pathways.

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Tapestry's April Fools Poem

Now look here.  I went to see this show called April Fools.  OK so I was exhausted but I knew I could not miss this show.  When you get to be my age, you don’t go to just any show, but this show it was tap dancing so I had to go see it, you know what I mean.

Well when I got there it was a Vaudeville, like a circus show, a carnival with one of those questionable Master of Ceremonies, you know what I mean.  When you get to be my age, you’ve seen everything.  I remember my grandfather took me to a tiny circus and he spent a very long time in a fortune teller’s tent.  But that is another story.

So you see here.  I was very happy to be there with the Vaudeville because they are kind of cartoon characters up there and of course you have to start with the juggler lady who jiggled real good, made me laugh so hard and she could juggle too.

All the old characters were there, that Maurice guy from France I think it was him, and Mickey from the early days, and Charlie with those inquisitive eyes, and shades of the guy with the big nose, and of course Sammie charmed us and made us stop yelling so loud for a minute or two.

Of course when you get to be my age you see those old singers and tappers sticking their heads around every corner.  The guy sitting next to me is a real good tapper and he would call out those old names, maybe it was Bonnie or Honey or something.

But what a guy my age sees mostly is the angels dropping down in between and on top of some of these characters.  So you see, these angels talk to me, right, and they say, “Don’t miss this life.  Don’t miss a minute of it.”  So well OK, I can’t go to sleep so I don’t miss a split second of this two hour April Fools show.

There was the lady pickpocket character and she was in love with Sammie, you could just tell.  But I’ve got to say there were two characters that were very hard to play.  The pretty girl was perfect but it is very hard to play the pretty girl.  Even in real life it is very hard to play the pretty girl because you got to cover up so much hurt down there somewhere.  You know what I mean, how do you play all the parts that are covered up down there?

The exception to that rule is when you hobble two beauties together and they tap dance together like you have never seen and well its like twins grinning beyond cute.  So then you don’t have to have two dimensions, you just have to have cute and cute.

Well the other part that is hard to play is the Mama.  Everyone knows that the Mother is always wrong, right?  Never can do anything right for having somebody yell at her, that’s the Mama.  Well, how do you play a cartoon character of that?  Enough said on that.

Well I have to say that at my age I have to be grumpy about something so I do have one complaint.  They let me and my wife in even at our age, and they kept us laughing until we cried, greasing every minute with million mile an hour tapping.  And you know about tap dancing with all those quick stops and trick red lights.  It’s hard on the heart.  It’s like when you get ready to go through a door and the green light says go and then the door slams shut.  Light says go, oops gotta stop.  Light says go go go, whoa wait a minute.  Then light really says go now go oh oh uh oh.  Then finally light says yes yes now go oh go oh oh oh ahhhhh.  Well the whole show was like that with more excitement that one heart can take.

And well back to my complaint, after all that, they didn’t provide any free stretcher service to get us out of the place.  Now what do you think of that?

So what do I have to say about this April Fools show?  Well, I have to ask you this. Do you want to shimmy back through every rip roaring Vaudeville act you have never seen?  Do you want to tango through the back streets of Buenos Aires?  Do you want to ride on top of the smoothest, gutsiest, the funniest, the most sentimental rhythms you have ever felt?

Well, if you do, what are you waiting for?   Call them up, these Tapestry people and you tell them I told you to tell them, “I’ll be right over.”  And you know with these Vaudeville types you can’t take no for an answer.  You tell them what I told you.  You tell them, “I’ll be right over.”  Then you ask them in one of those rhetorical tones, “You do this Vaudeville thing every night, right?”  You ask them that. And then you say, “Hold the curtain.”  No don’t say that.  You better say, “Hold me a seat.”  They’ll understand what you mean.

Tapestry’s April Fools, 4/1/12, By Tim Hurst

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Tapestry rearranged my cells

Tapestry Dance Company rearranged my cells.  I said goodbye to my DNA.

Left brain gave way to meticulous aboriginal choruses.  Right brain collapsed into brief slow motion silences.  In those spaces of mimetic time, simple circular arms took my entire body tumbling over waterfalls to one side, then roaring back to the other side.

Sound erupted from my entire body forming one word, “YES.”  I will never be the me that I knew before being immersed in this much clarity. 

Never the Same Again,  Tim Hurst,  092611,  Tapestry Dance Company, “The Souls of Our Feet”  September 24, 2011