Writing created as part of dance practice.
A birth, or sort of.
Whatever animal it is that struggles beneath the surface of this thin skin, it may bust the birth canal, break the brittle little edges of self that, after all, were made for exactly this kind of breaking. Behind the scream and all the contrived little struggles, a small, simple whisper, waiting patiently, for eons as necessary, for its one chance to speak. It is a chance that only ears can give it.
Starting Anew, Part I.
The people sit in a darkened room. Everything they thought they once knew has been taken from them. They are like Jews who, headed to America in 1945, forget the difference between the way to freedom and the way to the camps; you may think that ships and trains are unforgettably different, but only up to a point.
The people are not naked but they might as well be—they…
View original post 1,722 more words
K. Lewis 