Armani Harris
the dancers on the stage. Iʼd seen the performance from its beginning, from the first stage rehearsals to the actual public performances. Each time the dance was the same, each move done at the same time, in the same place. Take this piece for example: the twirl, followed by her left leg lifted up, followed by the jum -- wait that move, it wasnʼt the jump! Instead she slowly moved her leg down, twirling. Then she continued. As I watched her dance, I saw more differences. He was right! How could I not have seen these changes before? As I stared at him, eyes wide, he gave me another one of his nods. " “Yes, I can see it in your eyes. Youʼve noticed the change, and these are not the only changes made; the slight spin here, a move done with a different hand, landing on one leg, not two. These are small things when placed in the dance as a whole, but the changes are gigantic by themselves. Not enough to noticeably change the dance, but enough so that none of the pieces youʼve witnessed these past fourteen nights are the same.” " Now that he said it, I felt foolish for my naivety. The dance that I was watching tonight was not the same as the one I saw the previous
night. No. None of them were the same. The mechanical movement, the timed precision, it was all there, but now there was something else there. What had at first been a dance detached from emotion, was now a dance starting to fill with passion. It was as if the dancer had memorized the moves to a dance and was now realizing that there was music to it, as well. I looked at her amazed as this new understanding took a hold of me. And as if she knew, as if she could tell that I figured out her secret, she faced me, her eyes looking into mine. For a second there was the shadow of a smile upon her face. Then it was gone, and she was a slave to the chime once more. I turned to look at this man who had removed the fog from in front of my eyes. What else could this man teach me, this master of observing? As I faced him, ready to express my astonishment, my gratitude, my wonder, the balconyʼs curtain shook once more. The seat next to me was empty, except for a beautiful red rose, and a card. On the front of the card was the face of a clock, both of its hands pointing at the twelve. Inside, written in spindly golden letters, was a note: Just as the rivers of knowledge have flooded into you, the fires of passion must also be unlocked. The 15