The dancer sits, once more and not for the last time, at her writing chair. Dancer and writing chair don´t seem to go together and yet here´s life, breaking all predictable matches.
Movement, her daily bread, retreats into her womb, knowing it´ll have to find new ways of expressing itself. New dances, new concepts of movement.
Outside: rain, grey sky and possibilities.
Inside: rain, grey sky, (a candle) and possibilities.
The Dance: making the best out of rain, grey sky and possibilities. The candle may help but only if you believe in God.
Writing your own book(s) is a work of love or obsession. Maybe both. Here we go. Dishevelled, crazy looking, never so vulnerable. When I´m working on my book, I´m naked. That scares me a bit, I confess, but what to do except moving forward? Backwards is never the way.