In formal dance, that is, in observing it, since it is not a movement which I myself engage, grace only gives off a whiff of calculation and control. Control is an illusion cast forth like the reflection of a gleaming habit, something which is so well practiced, it is subliminal, unconscious, spontaneous, automatic. It's not unlike informal dance when such applies to music which, in this case, dances you. Sometimes a put-on like a priestly fabric, it may be that sublimity is more the experience of the observer than the performer, but that's beside the point. In the theatre of Artaud, the distinction between performer and audience is the starring absence, a magic disappearing act, the practice in extricating demons in broad daylight. Danced correctly, which is to say, "in fashion", there's no room left on the stage, even for a lonely hyphen.
Control that's not just trusting your own muscular and metabolic memories is never letting loose; all can see it's awkward, putting nothing down to chance or what's between the frames which gives two gestures continuity, the illusion that's reality – a movement rather than sequential stoppages – self-control prevents recovery and health – it makes for awkward blockages. The "C" words might be re-cured with "comfort", "expertise", "well-seasoned", since nothing has been sacrificed except perhaps our reason. Recalling the identity of myth and mirth or muthos as a speech which tastes like muther's milk (especially if you're starving), the indifference between order and disorder in magic time only represents a hyphenated state where duality is the grandest of illusions but most dangerous and tricky to perform. Order and chaos are both irreverent, impious, irrelevant.
As with guitar lessons, control lives in past tenses, in tension, attending to avoid practicing one's mistakes, that is, the repetition of the pre-mature or unintended. A mindfulness without intellectual interference, calculation only reflects the absence of speed which thereafter increases in acceleration such that both observer and performer miss the dance of fingers like it was a lost bead in a shell game. The difference between a bad actor and a good one is that the former merely uses tricks to persuade you something's real. On the other hand, we see a complete metamorphosis akin to any metempsychosis. One can judge the reality of a performance by randomly hitting the pause button – observe the freeze-framed expression on the face: Is it awkward looking or appropriate to the surrounding situation, to the stage? Imbueing life, the mask and costume may be essential to the transformation, assuming it's not just one's belief constructing reality if it's played with feeling.
There's the same sense of astonishment witnessed by the less than skeptical entranced at the magic show. There may be glandular secretions. Grace is the present awareness of everything going on subliminally such that one may at will change direction without stumbling, whether we're on the topic of fingers, feet or flapping tongues. That is adaptation, where freedom comes to bodies when the brain is left on hold, but not rendered unconscious. We've been told that that is also Zen, when things just seem to come together, and then they come again, when "hurling everything 'to chaos" feels like pleasure, not upchucking variegated, nauseated sin.
With all the words ending in -(t)ion like in commotion or rendition, the effect comes across as natural. Imagine two dancers meeting in chance encounter in the fashion of an Epicurean particle-collision. If an explosive bounce does not ensue, it's intentional repetition is called a choreography (in square-dancing, "the call") which makes it reproducible and therefore, stylized. Remember that in Dada, only from such epic, or should I say heroic collisions and heroine addictions emerge new forms. In ballet, we'd imagine a leap or bound from the stage, but that's just an after-thought confused with the allusion to offspring – that one leaps for joy is a natural interpretation, but broadly speaking means the sign has metamorphosed back into symbol, like it was any offering. This is merely an expropriation if it is understood or given that dogma and religion were first to take the symbols and make them into signs, that is attached an appropriated meaning; appropriate thus means that truth is only found in representation; it starts out as a bait-and-switch manipulation, like to live is merely not to die; that is, it was, put forth for someone else'e ends, a great big fat oversimplification, that is, a lie; not unresembling Alfred Jarry's puppet, Ubu Roy.
Without grammatical dissections or incision, Mr. Grey Matter is clearly capable of intuitive precision. Neither is dance and music much different from speech when one is aware of each utterance expressed almost spontaneously but perceiving semantic associations as if they were body movements, and then we see that they literally are from the reverberating vocal strings (a general strike and then again, a harp or xylophone) to the accompanying beat of one or more ear drums: "as if from an immense dripping forest, and in the equally sonorous interlacing of movements" we have the sighting of a symphony setting fire to the stage. Without hypocrisy are sounds like words and deeds with good intentions, divining distant other stages on which that tune's been heard. And sometimes it's a parody, for laughs or criticisms. I'm sure that Torquemada thought he was only helping Antonin Artaud with thirty seven electrocutions. Like all the roads to Dante's hell were paved with good intentions, only searching for some gold or justice' dispensation – some would rather call it "reason".
Think you not? The unconsciously expressed "thank you" is instantly answered with a well-practiced "you're welcome", but what is that? Awareness and unconscious (instant) word-play present the missing meaning as an action scenario: "you've come well" in answer to good thoughts put forth, as if we've all forgot the present since thanksgiving's not just eating but as well, for giveness. In many worlds "no thanks" as the refusal of a gift would be considered rude, that is, ungraceful. Faced with such unthinking might elicit a response or counter-move – "Them thar is fightin' words, dude!" Oh, such nihilistical ingratitude!
The climax of this spinning dance is vertigo, like dining on L-tryptophan or tripping at a fan dance. Reversability of the greeting, like a chicken and egg argument, sets up an equivalence between a visit and a gift. It's no exchange, they're dancing together – the host says "bienvenida, welcome, it's a mess", the visitor's "gracias, no es nada" is not confused with "asshole, thanks for nothing" but the rendering, "good thinking, gracious one but this is nothing" means a mess is in the eye of a beholder or just inconsequential.
Ain't it always something? Grace only ever works when gifts are both free and well intended. Forces of control are never, well, invited. Thanks is just the second person, past participle [from Latin particeps "a sharing" (see participate)] and durative sense of thinking, all from the PIE (as simple as archaic european) root *tong- "to think or feel." Thinking of a German Thing ('assembly'), it's not too hard to see a Chinese Tong a'coming into view. Or whatever grabs you like ice cubes or a hot potato. Coming is a synonym for entrancing, but really, who'd a' think-thank thunk it? We were on the topic of fish-bowl mutuality or some dancing on a stage while juggling dynamite – it's all the rage. That is, a theatre with no room for economic sentimentalisms like one-upmanship or give-and-take – a dance that's once and for all, done with judgments and with leaders.
