I found a couple of hours Wednesday afternoon to feel lost. I was at 51 Walden. I love that space that is like a barn or a church or the Met rehearsal hall. I made a solo.
I feel I must keep busy making work. Alexis, the dancer I work with from New York, keeps me on track. I want to choreograph something beautiful for her and my eight wonderful dancers.
I’ve been reading the Elizabeth Bishop poem posted below. I admire the invention, the color, the language, the opposition, and the sense of space.
Electrical Storm
by Elizabeth Bishop
Dawn an unsympathetic yellow.
Cra-aack!—dry and light.
The house was really struck.
Crack! A tinny sound, like a dropped tumbler.
Tobias jumped in the window, got in bed—
silent, his eyes bleached white, his fur on end.
Personal and spiteful as neighbor's child,
thunder began to bang and bump the roof.
One pink flash;
then hail, the biggest size of artificial pearls.
Dead-white, wax-white, cold—
diplomats' wives' favors
from an old moon party—
they lay in melting windrows
on the red ground until well after sunrise.
We got up to find the wiring fused,
no lights, a smell of saltpetre,
and the telephone dead.
The cat stayed in the warm sheets.
The Lent trees had shed all their petals:
wet, stuck, purple, among the dead-eye pearls.
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