Somatomy dance workshop with Masayo Benoist

We curl and float, sink and dive. Bodies scribbling across the room in dance. We are a flock. Together our bodies write our lives into the space. 

When I lean into her back and we are a single cell splitting. Breath in. Breath out. Sometimes synchronised, sometimes not. Just when you think the pulsing is predictable, something changes. 

A poem to our feet written by three strangers and spoken only through movement. One dancer becomes the persimmon tree, sap ripples up from the earth. Another is off beat to describe the tangle of a root system in rhythm. The third runs behind me childlike, circling. 

The floor has pushed back against our weight again and again. Feet like wings pushing against the sky.