I thought about the novels of Marguerite Duras or Francoise Sagan or Jeanette Winterson. Their writing invokes an idea of love that is painful and all-consuming and torrential. I could relate without feeling those feelings. But then I felt something. Perhaps it was not love, but it was significant. A rupture of my understanding of self and of the body. My writing has always been built on my obsession with the body. I am in a constant battle for control, for success, for conquering of the machinations and limitations of the body. That is why I danced. That is why I love it so much now. The visual is a confirmation of what can be achieved. These are my arms and legs. This is movement with grace. This is true. 

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