Greece was lovely, a bit primitive (no toilet paper down toilet for example) but still totally in the modern western world (cars, air conditioning, loud radio music, cell phones etc), more relaxed (not as many health regulations, for example, as the U.S. – you can use your plate again at the buffet), a bit random (they may or may not clean your dishes in the hotel), quite loud (people like talking, in sortof warmer Italian mafia flavor) and quite opulent in eating (a sandwich plate that might serve 5 in Japan, 2 or 3 in the U.S. serves 1 in Greece; when you order for a group, there is always at least 1/3 too much and the helpings are necessarily generous, in quantity and in fat content.) Safety concerns due to much-televised strikes turned out to be a non-issue, and the Grecians laughed in surprise when I explained my initial concerns. Surprising on a different level was the Greek alphabet. Letters previously seen only in mathematics textbooks and fraternities/sororities abounded on street signs, menus, fliers. Omega sounds like “O;” theta like “th” and when you see a P, you should pronounce it “rrr”. Greek people are very loving; I found the dancers quite huggable and kissable, their patience and kindness ever-palpable.

The performance was interesting, new because never before on this island had something so different occurred. The classics, so deeply rooted, had litte connection to the flowing beauty and naturalness of butoh and Kan’s choreography. Still, the precision I would hope for from the whole and, most importantly, from myself, was lacking. Ironically, though I had the most experience and the most confidence, I most significantly deviated from the choreography, lost my mind in being put-upon with having to be the cue-bearer rather than the dancer. I did not know the material well enough; I let the people and the situation annoy me; I relied on myself rather than my God.

Greece was very nice, but I must admit I am delighted to be in the modern, gentle ambience of the Berlin airport. The muted red, black, gray, tan and off-white colors and the quiet, gentle tone pleases my soul very much. For the first time, I have a hint of what it means to be German… When the smartly cut blond, blue-eyed young red-belted stuart gracefully showed us how to use the safetly equipment in the plane, I caught a bit of what Hitler might have been thinking when he claimed the Arian man to be the epitome of beauty… falling in love with the artistry of his very being.

Still, the memory of the communist olive farm theatre, Avriokos, where we spent most of our evenings together, eating rich food and clinking our glasses together cheering, “Yamas!!”as well as some of us doing the voicing workshops with sincere, somehow Northwest “U.S.-ly” familiar Niskria, lingers like a rare dream, preserved place of the past, previously only tangentally imagined from Russian plays read in drama school sings sweetly, if semi-dustily, in my heart. I remember sweet dances and conversations with new-old Greek dancer friends, Eva and Eva, Philipos, Effy, Antonias, Theopholos along with profound connection with world-traveler, Kyoto-born, now New York residing Azumi.
A mature 27, a gifted dancer of only two years, synchronized deeply in her own spirit and in revolution. The process she and I had, learning each other, sharing our butoh east and west-coast stories, personal philosophies, and finally trying to develop a piece together… the challenge of melding different processes… my frustration with the continual discussion, her frustration with my jumping and naming, perhaps to quickly the next step. Butoh, I am discovering, can be a deeply intellectual activity, each minute painstakingly eeked out from hours of study, development, and/or conversation. I find myself wondering if I could do this work with such intricate detail, on my own. The discipline is profound! And then, outside of the creative process there are the ever-looming financial considerations...