SPCP JOURNAL

SPCP JOURNAL
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Wednesday, September 3, 2008

3 September 08

Good Morning everyone,

It is 8:30 a.m. here in the studio.
I am here to get what little internet reception there is available and
make some contact. DH is here next to me and Celine is too. We just
exchange some laughs about the Bush speech last night. Am I right? I
was just told that NBC broadcast the speech to the convention from the
white house with gaping silent holes in the speech where there should
have been applause and cheers? Is that true. What a surreal
experience it must have been to see it.

And what is the news on New Orleans? Bless them.
DH just told me that some of her family in Cecilia, LA are reporting
flooding, power outage, trees down and they are camping out. This is
near Lafayette I believe isn't it which too a major hit during the
last flood. That's what news I have.

Here it is getting cooler during the days and especially at night.
Wet to be sure, but not stormy. Very dramatic sunrises and sunsets.
The rhythm of the days unfold with DH and participants arriving early,
sitting in a line along one wall of the studio where internet
reception works and there you would see if you were sitting center of
the studio a row of macs and pc's, bowed heads and the tap tap of
furiously typing fingers. Some laughing and chatting for those
skyping loved ones or business associates around the globe. It is a
funny sight. Some disembodied voices from the computers speaking in
all kinds of languages .... But we cannot let the world intrude too
much. There is a deep meditation on this dance. We are rehearsing
from 9 a.m. until 6 p.m. every day. Individual practice, group
practice, and repetitions of solos over and over again. Bodies are
getting tired. Spirits are good I think. But the information
gathered from the bodies and the space and from one another builds and
the "attempt" to "do" it one realizes gets more and more difficult -
even though there is simultaneous clarity. And to see a dancer after
20+ minutes of solo'ing gasping for air, or sweating, or limping to
the side lines for notes from Deborah is inspiring I think. It is
hard work. It costs. 20+ minutes of solo almost entirely improvised
based upon choreographic prompts from the choreographic "script" is
hard work. One loses one's way, one loses hope, one thrills to the
moment when the practice is present, or one manages to remember the
practice. In fact, as DH has said, the choreography is really a trick
to get you to doing the practice. In fact I should be clear that "the
practice" is not a good thing to say. As she has insisted, there is
no "practice." It is not a noun. It is a verb. We are practicing.
Practicing what? you might wonder. Well I have to go practice
now ... so ponder that for a time and I'll get back to you in a little
while ..... meanwhile some pictures of the tide out in the bay,
Celine from Paris, Sandy (living in Brussels I think) and Deborah and
Tanya (from Luxembourg I believe)

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

I think that is the North Sea.

Janine said...

hello from wyoming big brother.
enjoyed your blog and all of the photo's, yet another way to keep track of you, sounds like a wonderful experience, but truth be told glad to have you home.
Take care and love to p.henry.
your lil sis,
Janine

tasou said...

yes, tania from Luxembourg

Poem of the day (or whenever I change it)

"Odysseus"
Always the setting forth was the same,
Same sea, same dangers waiting for him
As though he had got nowhere but older.
Behind him on the receding shore
The identical reproaches, and somewhere
Out before him, the unravelling patience
He was wedded to. There were the islands
Each with its woman and twining welcome
To be navigated, and one to call ``home.''
The knowledge of all that he betrayed
Grew till it was the same whether he stayed
Or went. Therefore he went. And what wonder
If sometimes he could not remember
Which was the one who wished on his departure
Perils that he could never sail through,
And which, improbable, remote, and true,
Was the one he kept sailing home to?


By: W.S.Merwin