Inspiration is a tenuous thing, intangible, flirtatious and altogether faithless. I felt the touch of her hand last night and found myself walking around outside in the freezing fog, the street light ringed with a halo and windows curtained against the cold and I think I could have cried. The cold air and woodsmoke burned my nose and I stood breathing deep, hidden in the purples and deep violets of night, made brilliant by the layer of river fog, and high above the cold stars glinted.

The music I played last night in our warm house was intoxicating like red wine, pretty when held up to the light, sharp and then smooth against the tongue. I found my thoughts dervishing, great billows of whirling energy, connected between earth and sky like a spinning dancer's hands, one hand open to the ground, the other open towards the sky, forming a conduit.

The dance troupe my friends and I have formed seeks to generate our own style of dancing together, working not through a set choreography but through communication, so the dance is impromptu and original, and never predictable. We have been focused on the how, and it has preoccupied me more than I would admit. How do we communicate while dancing without speaking? How do we work together without a choreography? Last night I believe I figured it out, and I cannot explain it in words, but with motions.