The nature of a solo is that it is alone,
To fold sight backwards into myself to see from the inside.
What a peculiar sight.

I spend so much time slightly worried,
That what I am doing looks ridiculous.
But we are all asymmetrical on the inside.
A small gooey being.
Sad clown.

I built a career on the fact that
While I wanted desperately to dance Swan Lake
That I wound up as The Duck in Peter and the Wolf,
One hundred thirteen shows
That made hundreds of small children in Atlanta laugh
Who are now in their thirties
(Holy crap)

Thirty freaking years of silly dancing.

I turn my old pan of whiteface over in my hand.
Knowing that I am a silly (empty), inside-out presence, even when I’m the most serious and thinking
This is it, really.
(What…? Stare at a star sideways, and lost again.)

The negative spaces
The gaps between the breath around me and the breath inside
Betrays the truth.
(What?)
It is always something other than what I think
I am trying to say.

More laughing.
More strange looks from the audience, which is fine, really.

So this thing that I am making?
I have no idea.
It is a ridiculous prayer
To make the Spirit laugh.