Warning. You caught me in a pensive mood.
This dance was special.
There's always one, you know? Do it long enough and you'll be able to point without hesitation. "That was the one," you say, knowing everything after can only be echoes.
Sometimes it depresses me.
That's the thing about dance. When you write an amazing book, it can be read over and over again. This dance, this thing, existed for two days. Pretty short peak. Now I can watch the video and remember, but it doesn't exist anymore. I guess I could restage it, but I have this thing about restaging. The second life tends to be artificial, key components missing. Sure it is new to much of the audience, but for me it is like eating leftovers. Same smell. Same level of excitement. Plus, a dance is its dancers in many ways and I don't know that we'll ever be able to bring the same cast together. The same chemistry and combination of ideas.
I'd like to make a place for it here on my blog.
So, from a career that has included dances about insects, bums, sirens, ghosts, warriors, smooth cats, dorky nerds, insane asylum inhabitants, refuges, murderers, top models, tea addicts, jazz rats, pioneers, fire, oceans, rain, sleepwalkers, the hopeless and the hopeful, the cool and the without a clue, the graceful and the odd, and children who wander into forests and turn into bats, I present a fuzzy glimpse of my favorite. The dance closest to my heart.
Maybe one day I'll do better.
Do you have an epic work in your past that you're always trying to live up to?
35. Leviathon - Scott Westerfeld