Bulareyaung, Studio 5, 7–9pm, 08.09.2011
If I carried with me an emerging sort of seriousity from Studio 7, it was dispelled immediately upon contact with the Studio 5 floor. No sense of tranquility here. Action, action, action permeated the room.
A male dancer spun like a top; another flew through the air; a couple grappled in the mirror; someone in the corner rose and fell, rising and falling; someone else panted loudly on the floor.
Where was the choreographer? I see an assistant sitting quietly, operating the music from a laptop. Where … where … scanning … scanning …
But wait, that’s him?
Bula’s rehearsal is, in some ways, the most remarkable one that I’ve observed thus far. He remains still for long periods of time, watching, making small gestures to indicate “more,” “less,” “not really,” “really?!” He operates the music from a laptop, placed at a right angle to mirrors resting on the studio floor. His expressive face runs the gamut of emotions. When he does rise he does so with an alacrity that astonishes me. Those feet! Those hands! His physical ease and generosity of spirit are self-evident in his smiling face.
Were but I a young man again, Bula would surely be my sage!
Ode to Bula Bula Buddha
He sits. He observes.
He sits again. He waits.
On his feet suddenly. No immobile
all knowing one he. A princely Siddhartha,
on the periphery of enlightenment, looking for a kernal amidst
spinning, lunging, popping, locking, grunting, jumping, sighing, laughing, exhausted, entertaining, pleasing, suffering, self-flagellating, wondering, happy seekers
to unearth a visceral seed
with which to grow his Bodhi tree.