SCORE: pleasure dance

(Preparation: cover all mirrors. have a notebook and pen/pencil nearby. can be done with music or in silence, whichever brings more pleasure)

Instructions: move to find joy, move to feel good. Close your eyes if needed. Find what you need in your body. As you move, take moments to document some data in your notebook; note how you feel and what your body does to find pleasure. Document sensation. This is what Mav and I have been calling ‘poetic data’. There is no wrong way to collect poetic data. Think of this collection as a continuation of your pleasure dance. Can writing be a dance of its own? 



a collection of my writing from three days of this practice:




it feels fundamentally me to fold and stack. My body wants to roll and twist and find caves within myself to fill/enter/collapse. I find oppositions, contradictions, interruptions. My toes count each other as I write. I print my body on the floor. I imagine the shapes that would appear if I was covered in ink. 


As hard as I try to find fluidity, my body resists, so I listen. Flexion feels dark green and authentic. Although I feel physical warmth, I stray away from movement that feels like warm colors. I exist in pools of green, blue, and grey. I find child-like joy in moments where I feel my body enter a shape I know I have never found before. 


I cradle my body with more body. 


I find blue yawning and green flexion. Alternate. 


There is more childlike joy in repetition. I pool my weight into my knees and elbows and slide the balls of my feet in tiny windshield wiper movements. It gives me butterflies and an irrepressible smile. I have a crush on repetition. 


Upside down feels like purple and fiona apples voice and playgrounds. 


I found myself on the floor but not in my feet yet. Mav and I are sand monsters at the bottom of a lake. 


I trace my body with body. I hold my body with body. My body holding body is held by the floor. 


I sometimes feel like my legs are more than mine. I share parts of my body with others, like a universal limb. But my hands, my hands are mine. My hands are sacred, my hands are only mine, my hands invented hands. 


My hands love music. I have found rhythm in my fingertips for as long as I can remember. I tap each finger to the part of the song I feel most connected to. Sometimes the voice, sometimes a trumpet, rarely the beat. I find joy in even rhythms, when the section ends on my pointer finger. 


Without my hands, I would have a universal body. My hands make me me. 


I find myself on my feet when I let my hands choose. I find myself on my feet in repetition. I return to my crush and find her in my fingers. My hands are my signature. 


My hands are infinite. 


My hands are bugs. 

My hands are all the bugs I have not found yet. 

I am not looking for bugs. 




Today, I am a bag of bones. No, no bag, just bones. 


I am a piece of architecture, me stacked on me stacked on me


I feel so heavy. 


I am finding pleasure in my body as sea urchin. 


I have a thousand tiny feet all over the surface of my body. They carry me across the studio floor, the sea floor. 


I move macroscopically. My tiny feet move microscopically.


I glide because of a thousand tiny steps. 


I am under water that is alive. It is pushing me into the rocks, sand, hardwood floor. 


I am surprised that I float when I stand. I find the current, I dance with whales, I watch a bird fly by the window.


I return to the crushing pressure of the floor. She is trying hard to keep me here. I will go find the current again. 


The current is the music today, which is unusual. I find me in inverted circles. 


I look at bones. I feel my bones.


I find my body. I am no longer sea urchin. 


I am real, finally. I am no metaphors. 


I am body momentum gravity play swing toss anatomy

I am flat long fast 

Palms of hands

Throw bounce

I am the bones in my feet.


I feel gratitude and realism in the weight bearing structure of my feet.


I am nauseous and I am me. Half way.


I try to decipher the reflection of light on wood.

Ball of pink in my pelvis.                                   on the left.

I am sitting with my feet flat on the floor. 

In the floor

Through the floor.


I feel cloudy misty red irritated soft high.


I am real only sometimes. 


The floor is falling asleep.


I am thirteen. I had a sleepover last night. I have the feeling that time has paused. I feel vaguely shitty, in need of a shower. I have a whole day to not care about the day. 




I feel loose and liquid today. 


I feel an orb of potential pathways around me. I close my eyes and see squares of pink. My body wants to squiggle and paint and find places in my bubble that have never been visited. 


Frustration has not joined us today. I feel less heavy. The edges of my body hug closer than I am used to. I feel cool air on my skin and long spine just below it. 


I stir my insides and outsides. I taste pumpkin. 


I feel topless in the rain. I find familiarity stacked on my side. 

My dance partner is my spine today.


I draw circles with my fingers and inside my pelvis.


The texture of my skin tells me I am cold.


I am a multicolored matrix of possible bodies. 


The lines i make are blue today. 

I feel a purple wave on my skin when sweat rises to the surface.