d-pict | dance odyssey

Brame des cerfs / Bell of deer The landscape has a feminine silhouette, a small rise between dark, curving thighs. The air is sweet and cold. Silence is punctuated by the high, round sound of owls and the deep bell of the deer. The stag with the deepest, strongest bell will be chosen by the does. Bellows, roars and staccato grunts sound from near and far. Brame, bell, mating call. Stars centred over the valley take the form of a running deer. One of the stars drifts away to the right... a satellite. Still the star deer was running, and the Milky Way spilling light into the falling night. //Bourgignon// Travelling mostly among strangers since August, it's special to be welcomed by a dear friend in her family home. Besides my dad, Sophie was my only visitor from Europe to Sydney, so it's a joy to return the favour and visit her in France. On my first day S. proudly showed me around her town of Dijon. Owls are recurring emblem, reputed to bring creative inspiration. Man...

My first few days in Budapest were spent mostly at home, in the local library or local cafes, booking travel and doing admin. There were no dances, but it was okay because I still had a horrible cough and I needed to recover. I was also very emotional, missing my lovely Italian host family and crying about my own family's problems. Still, I appreciated the city on the Danube by bike, lots of great food and a relaxing arvo at the famous Gellert baths. First dances My mood started to lift on Friday evening at contact improvisation, my health was on the mend. And I was excited to go to my first swing dance later that night. When I arrived about 11pm in the studio on Paulay, the room was almost empty... less than 10 people sat around the corners and one couple was dancing, or maybe two, on a lovely smooth parquet floor. Interesting, slow swing music -- I started to dance, and then one of the guys offered me his hand. The ice was broken and after that I danced with most of the gu...

My first morning in Budapest started uneventfully ... a step across the road to the bakery and then a stroll around the neighbourhood, looking for a leafy, sunny spot with wifi. Most of the tables in the park are taken. There is a table of men and women talking. At another table four men sit drinking bottles of beer. It's 11AM on a Tuesday morning and judging by their neat clothes, they could be on their way to (or from) work.  I looped back to my Airbnb. The apartment staircase within the private courtyard was my best Wi-Fi and tea spot. And so I sat for probably a good hour journalling, tapping on my phone. Neighbours came and went on the opposite stairs. Then an old, fat, moustachioed man with a yellow shirt came to talk to me. I don't speak Hungarian, I said.  --Francais? Yes. --  What you are doing there doesn't work. And he gestured for me to leave the premises. I'm not blocking his path. He thinks I'm trespassing. "I'm sleeping here, at my fri...

Napoli to me is a dystopia of urban dysfunctionality. Huge historic buildings with impressive architecture and hollow, unglazed windows loom over the streets, surrounded by high fences and piles of rubbish. One such monumental edifice is near my B&B – a former 'Paupers Hospital', is fronted with a row of palm trees... an architectural carcass as wide as a golf course. Wasted infrastructure abounds. Even the Royal Botanical Gardens only opens on weekends... the rest of the time nothing is visible but a high wall topped with plants, and a very spiky barrier. Urban paradise lost. The city stinks.... in some places it's the abundant dog shit that dominates, usually it's the traffic fumes, mingled with the hum of overflowing rubbish bins. The traffic is loud, aggressive, chaotic and very inefficient. Smarter Italian cities minimise vehicular traffic through narrow historic streets, allowing cafe culture and commerce to flourish. Here pedestrians, mopeds, ambulances ...

In a small town where people-watching is more popular than phone-watching, its seems I am the most interesting item of the day, week or month. The staring is familiar from my childhood in rural Ireland, in an era when emigration was more common than immigration. I could go for a year without seeing a brown face other than my mum or brother. You never really get used to being stared at, but my style comes from an expectation being watched ...so why not turn up the colour? Walking alone in the historic centre of Montescaglioso, I wonder when was the last time they saw a black person. The curious, blank stares of old men and women. I greet them politely, I get a polite reply. The unwavering, objectifying stares of a group of men outside a bar or going by on a truck. I ignore or stare back. Kissing noises when I walk by. At what age they learn to relate to women this way? Its intimidating, but people don't lock their doors here. I feel safe enough. And did I mention the baby stares...

The smell of mandarin peel, horse sweat and leather on my hands after a ride through timeless lush paddy fields. I feel the continuity from plants, crops and trees through horse, dog, cat, chicken, pig, human. This continuity is celebrated in the imagery, costumes, statues, dances and offerings of the daily Hindu worship here. So different from the Christian separation from the animal world. Yet I've seen more animal suffering here than anywhere I can recall. When people live close to their animals they can be surprisingly careless and cruel. In a restaurant: a small menagerie of caged birds includes a sulphur-crested cockatoo, grey skin where his white plumage should have been, constantly falling off his perch and hauling himself back on. While we eat, he constantly chews his metal bars and chains, struggling to be free. A calf tied to a tree has twisted himself into a choke hold and can't undo it. And then there's just the cruelty of nature when it meets the develo...

For my first weekend in Bali I'm joined by a dear old friend who lives in Jakarta. Almost 2 decades my senior, Tony pushes me beyond my comfort zone, into the zone of adventure. Tony's plan for our second day in Bali: ride down the mountain through farms and villages for 40km without a guide. The night before collecting the rental bikes we tried them out – they needed work. The shopkeeper said that he would fix them up: firm tyres, oil and working brakes. On the morning of the big ride, my front tyre was mushy. The shopkeeper told me he did not have a pump. Incredulous, I said 'You don't have a pump? But this is a bike shop!' He got on the bike himself and said 'There is enough air.' 'I ride a bike every day,’ I said. 'I know when there is enough air. That tyre is too soft.' The guy disappeared up the road for a short while with the bike, came back and asked me to try it – no difference. When Tony arrived with my coffee, he responded calmly...