JH ENGSTROM: “Trying to Dance”

And if you come to the end of the rope, you can’t go down, you can’t go up… your hands red, tingly and pulsating with the weight of your body, your body pulled by the gravity that is the weight. Your weight is you, your body is your trap, you can see out of your mass but you can’t disconnect from it, it hangs with you, on you… you sit and you hang, in your trap. And you burn as a weight, you struggle to get away from the burn… the lonely, the isolation is your burn, you move, you hang, your hanging… you can’t get away.

Hang there, dangle and feel your dead weight.

And for your destiny… you are your body, you are the self, you are in your body and dangling from your rope. But what about the dance, how do you take charge and present yourself to the others, present something else… but what if you are not more than you and you are just the mass, your body… and nothing else. You have to move, escape, the rope is the trap – you are more than just the self, the body is not dead weight, you can dance… your can get out, your mind can touch the others and you can feel the way. Feel the moment, the flesh touches and you dance… you find your way for a moment, now is your chance. Look out from behind the holes in your head, look through the window panes that open… find a sliver and take it, your mind and your body, you can tell them what to do. The trap is a lie, the lie lives inside of you. Your body is just a vehicle, a ship, a vessel… tell it what to do.

Who owns who.

JH Engstrom’s Trying to Dance is the body, the self, the essence, the mind… the awareness, the alive… the heart beats… so, the opposite of dead. No, not the opposite… alive but also there is the part of the self that thinks it is dead, the imperfections, the flaws, the pain. The presence, the touch, the feel… the dance. As if looking out from a hardwired view into the head… fragments of nakedness, fragments of touch, cold and hot, the world, the dream that is jammed into the cracks. The structure of this JH work is to paint from the psyche, let the psyche bleed it’s colored memory shards on to your face… feel the drum in your head, in their head, in our heads, feel the smell of the fluids dried on the bed, memories shared, choices shared, the physical, the life… our lives.

Traps of the body…. traps of the head… trying to dance.

Regards,

Doug Rickard


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