Not quite a dream or illusion but a disillusion, 1987; commemorated by crude 64-color digital panorama, January 1990, by Chris Wayan.
For my first dance teacher,
of Roble Hall, Stanford.
We cripplehearts love dance,
So I join a class beyond my depth.
Wrap my wounds in leotard;
Technique's my tourniquet.
I weave a nest of warm tight rules
Our confidante the mirror wall
I can't find the guy--
Scour the class, in the glass:
You float around me--like fear's reek.
Memorize the face, kid.
This wasn't poetic license. I really did transform so much that one day in dance class around 1987 I failed to recognize myself in the mirror. Who was that tall stranger who'd joined our class? A shock when I realized it was me.
This was my first attempt to paint the auras of energy I feel around dancers or performers--or lovers. I have trouble actually seeing their bodies sometimes, the energy is so vivid.
Today it looks wild and crude to me, but I was limited to 64 colors then, and half those were darkened versions of the main 32 (a trick the old Commodore Amiga did to expand its palette and squeeze all it could from a 7-megahertz brain.)
I did what I could with a stick and a rock. And for me, the moment means a lot.
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