A Penny for Your Body Sensations

Sometimes I wonder what my friends and loved ones would say, were they to see me chirruping and spasming, rolling and shaking, whooping, grinding, and kicking away in that magical realm known as improvisational space.

I like to think they would say, "Awesome."

Today we were instructed to make the worst half hour of improvisation ever. Martin, the teacher, also suggested that since we were all tired and lolling around the floor, this would be a good place to start. So, 15 people in a good sized studio, the glorious light of the first real sun in weeks dripping tantalizingly through the windows and reminding us we would not be leaving school until it was dark outside, improvising the worst dance ever. He said you have until 20 past, go.

I decided that, since this was the worst improvisation ever, I should ignore everyone else and make annoying sounds and lay on the ground. I was not the only person to succumb to this or similar impulses. And I'll be damned if something absolutely embracing and rife with potential didn't titillate all the sensitive spots of my kinaesphere. It was so specific, fifteen people being just grossly indulgent and pointedly unremarkable, that the space came alive with it. And it grew and changed, as these things will, into a bunch of duets and trios and solos, a mess of greens sprouting under the first real sun in weeks.

I ended up in a duet with this girl, let's call her Claire for the purpose of no one from my school ever being able to google or otherwise locate this blog, and that shit just blew up. I recently buzzed my head, which was a big deal to me because I've never done in all 23 years of my life, and all that hair was holding me back, man, but the loss of my virile locks still warrants proper mourning. Claire, playing with her absurdly thick and long braid across the room, cracked open the repressed well of loss. So, one thing leads to the next, and we are dancing, lifting, and swinging about essentially attached at the head, so I have a braid and lots of hair again. And she had a donkey to chase her carrot, I suppose. By the end we were no longer attached, and began vocally articulating our movements, using voice and movement as cues to bring our actions into relation with one another.

After the half hour was up, groups that had stumbled together performed short improvs for the class based on what had happened. I was enraptured by the performative compatibility that arose in a mere half hour (discounting the five months we've spent together...) In me and Claire's case it was the melding of a familiar dramatic relationship, sexual tension, with a madness of ridiculous sounds and unpredictable movement. Dancing will not save the world. But there seems to be something so damned worthwhile in what happens when people find this performative compatibility. That, however, is a topic for another day. Or for the rest of my life, really.