Emotion: Reflections from Maya Giulivi 

4am is an hour of mystery. Familiar to those that live for an endless night or for the stretched hours of a mapped-out morning. For me, dreams occupy this hour, and, unpredictably, my body does occasionally wake. This was an occasion. I, amongst a parliament of dancers in the process of waking, chose to perform for a charitable crowd, giving up the commodity of dreams to be active at that tender time. Even a few straddling stars and a wall filled with peaking, white-framed rectangular windows joined in the watching. All together, listening to the moon and observing the wind roam freely.  

Do you remember choir days? The classic, “You’ve Got a Friend in Me.” I miss those days. Here we are in a circle, humming dissonant notes, probably much like I did in school choirs, feeling the communal connection constructed by a cacophony of sound. A real throwback. We sang a song in Russian, trying to convey the meaning of it’s lyrics, though really we knew (contently) that we had created only a near-enough imitation. Harmony is stunning, isn’t it, even if you are making it up as you go?

Ever tried performing an entire lifetime whilst living your life? It’s definitely meta. My dearest love lived for meta moments; the thrill of it kept her watching the same series over and over again. I get it now. The delight in a work that refers to itself stretches the mind that bit further. Imagine birth again, this time more seamlessly. Have you ever seen a mother and their child roll out into life one after another? Here, they did so through the opening of a studio door. I guess it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Or perhaps there is someone that views time passing much faster or slower than me. Perhaps someone has experienced the briefness of time between the birth of a mother and then her child. I think I heard my grandma has – to her, my mum was born only the other day. 

Then there was life. 

Far less harmonious than the birth of this early night. Tug-of-wars intertwined with trees growing and passing, and some sort of macarena-ish dance. Not much would make sense on reflection. It definitely wasn’t linear. But have a look back at your life or just observe it right now. Is it clear? I perform a polished-up version of my “story”. I wonder, though, if I shared all the tug-of-wars and morning moments of dressing for the day ahead, would you relate to me more? 

It’s funny how our default is the hero’s story, forgetting all those that live intertwined with us. In moments of distance we remember how much a person lives in our morning habits and evening thoughts.

Tug of war  

I had other ambitions for us 
that lived in harmony, 
and in the playful push and pull.  

My love, 
grips did loosen, 
but judgments did fester, and laziness was welcome. 

If tensions did balance, 
we would have both merit. But my grip loosened, 
and yours pulled away further.  

Clouds 

Why do clouds present themselves stagnant only in the mind? 
Move, even if not visible to the eye 
Let the body direct you 
And as the thoughts collect 
So will the skies open 
And the clouds? 
Well they have already moved on.

Tree 

Dear tree, 
I’ve seen you standing there for years, 
years more, I heard them say, you stood. 
And now, lying on the ground, you rest, 
yet your branches, green, still point to the sky.  

I perch on you, feeling weak in my toes 
that gripped like roots, sure in my reality, 
now no longer gripping nor sure.  

May I rest here with you? 
And, as we’ve landed closer to loss, 
May the ground cushion our change 
And let life sprout us again to simply look to the sky amazed. 

There seems to be only one moment of clarity that I have felt in my life thus far: his passing. The moment I saw my grandfather most at peace was in a dream on the night he left the hospital. What appeared to be unmanageable in my life began to look insubstantial. Before his passing, I had asked him to write his story, and he did. I haven’t read it all. I thought of him in the performance of a communal procession. As others sat with their loves in their distant eyes, I saw them remember lives together. The sadness tingled through me. It is in feeling grief that a humbled curiosity for life is born again. Their absent gaze began to wander and as they stood to look round, we had realised that the night had been followed by day.