Last night I dreamt of Baryshnikov.
His movement, perhaps even still, exposed aliveness beyond what is essentially real.
In my dream, my body mimicked his, fluid motion that defied the earth’s gravitational pull. 367 more words
I had forgotten that the variation we’re doing is from act 2 of Giselle, with the Wilis trying to dance Albrecht into his grave, which he may or may not richly deserve depending on whether we read him as a soulless playboy toying with the heart of an innocent country lass or the star-crossed youth torn between True Love and social obligation. 66 more words