Second piece on the program, we hopped and jogged through half the first, building the blood up in our bellies. Listening for the change in key, we scurried through the wings behind the backdrop, waiting stage right. Silently and in darkness, we writhed. Each of us feeling out our bodies in the tight strip of blackness, checking for the twist of our spines, the flexibility of our shoulders. Measuring the bare space before us with micro-movements, careful not to brush our backs against the drop- give ourselves away. Shifting from one foot to the other, testing balance in this blankness. In my careful tangling I became aware of the odd process we practice: eyes closed, somehow separate but synced. Moving in a coil, gathering energy up from the floor through our feet and into this one mass we became.

From our swirling came lights, strings, an explosion of electrified bodies zip-zapping and bouncing from one spark to the next.

Of a work of art, depending on movement for its effect. Kinetic.

And now, the morning after, I find myself revisiting an old friend. White Electric. One of my favorite west side coffee shops, with its three bolts of electricity flashing across the front window. Just sitting like a citizen, reminiscing on 14 hours ago when I was made of some other matter.

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