The Dance
I like to dance through human traffic. In order to do that you have to be aware of your surroundings — the moment you set foot on the cold, concrete floor, leave your mind's eye open. You don’t have to be alert, panicked or predatory in your approach. It’s like keeping track of an object in your peripheral vision, a subtle focus that forces you to be actively passive in attaining your goals. The soft power of observation.
To make your way down the block you must find the hidden spaces and fill them like water poured in a cup. Be fluid. New Yorkers are interchangeable between states: hard as ice, as elusive as steam, and as warm as summer rain. The key is to move your shoulders so you can squeeze by without touching a soul. Contact is communication, and we strive for brevity.
Twist your torso slightly, feel the breeze of passing bodies, the hint of someone’s perfume; smoke and whispered language all hang in the air, and you weave yourself through it like a needle: precision and grace. Should you miscalculate, never look back. Your eyes are forward and everywhere.
Dance in the chaos with each blinded step; drunken sway towards infinity, an urban ballerina whose music lies in the deep breaths of the city.
