tonight our little yellow fish hums and sings its goodbye

Choreographing is like writing sentences. And writing is like designing in space, creating imaginary patterns that lie underneath the breadth of light. Lucky ones see it, the dancer who deliberately goes through the path cannot even see it, because as we busily put ourselves into the space we end up watching and not 'doing.' Showing and not being. Repeatedly you tell yourself that there is nothing else more overrated than the sense of seeing and framing and yet I catch myself caught in the trap of my rules and framework. Somewhere lies the elusive threshold of 'letting go.'
Sadly, it hasn't arrived.
Tonight our little yellow fish hums and sings its goodbye. The beating tap of the rain and occasional chilly breeze that hits my face soon fades and like a glimpse into a vortex of blue I remain in the surface. Under the ground sits the tale of foregone will. Emptiness seems too melodramatic even. The drama queen that sits on her throne is dying to get out of her role to live in illusory delight, blinded by bright green envy of a life that will never come. Free running in space. Afternoon delight with contact mics...
free deliberate composing in between housework, correspondences and little indulgences. panic looms, on the plane again in a few days. what awaits? hopefully not the monotonous grind of work and pleasure but a final break-away from habit.
the little fish flutters away forgetting and then remembering completely out-of-tune. out-of-wits. willing strangers of the green-painted lonely night