Falling asleep and awakening to discover one is in a poetic journal. The only medium of desire or expression is metaphor. Or one is lost on a desert and the only water
that suffices is a need to hear a particular musical phrase. This music- this ravishing work of art, dance, sculpture and not another. Earlier, I discovered some videos of Sylvie Guillem dancing. Her dancing temporarily took me into that place I go when my senses are overwhelmed with beauty. In this mood I am not particularly interested in why an artist wanted to create, perform, write, compose etc -only that they did.
The art itself is liquid fire; amber dripping from the heart of the oracle, and transforming into a dragonfly. Later, I may be convinced to engage in intellectual discourse. I suppose that this is a poetic discourse but it feels like it has flesh and bones.
Tonight, I was briefly transported by the dancing of a Sylvie Guillem. She was the protegee of the late Rudolf Nurevev, former director of the Paris Opera Ballet. His influence is apparent; a certain languid, almost feline grace.
