Voice-overs for choreographed movement
A:Here. Here is where I want it. Like this. And then here. And then everywhere. Slowly, slowly, each to its time. But first, right now, right here.
B:I know this curve, this arc of stretching need. I know what happens, and how, and when. I do, and I am done.
A:And so: Now. Here. And yes, here.
B:I know the shape, the motion, the words. But there is something else. I listen intently, and watch, and try to understand. As always, I strain with the effort.
A:Here, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Well, no, maybe not. Something’s not right. Maybe here? No. Maybe here, then? Or is it…?
B:The effort of trying exhausts me, but I must understand, I must. The why of it. The why not of it.
A:I don’t know now. Was it like this…or like this? Was it here… or here?
B:The feeling of the doing. The doing crushed beneath the weight of something else. Memories? Expectations? This instant has got to be now!
A:Here — there — where — I don’t know anymore, I just don’t!
B:It isn’t now.
B:Why are you looking at me like that?
A:I knew this would happen.
B:So did I.
A:I knew you’d do this.
B:I did what I always do. But then, so did you.
A:What you always do: hold up your magnifier and burn off the moment.
B:For me, not for you.
A:For me as well. Your scrutiny is like the sun in the desert: a merciless glare.
B:Oh really? Shall I tell you about you?
A:Now it’s gone.
B:Shall I tell you? Do you want to hear?
A:One irretrievable moment: gone.
B:You don’t, do you? No, of course, you wouldn’t.
A:And not the only one gone.
B:I’m tired, very tired.
A:Others will follow. The procession is endless.
B:Even my eyes ache. Even my fingertips.
A:And I am part of that procession.
B:And I want to go to sleep.