Cairo, the 21st May, 2011

The delights of frustration.

I look down at my feet and sigh...

Some tears roll down my face simply because I am not getting enough inspiration to come up with the movements that will EXCITE ME.

This is the painful part of choreographing. I have to feel excited about my own creation, otherwise I get really frustrated and do not even dare to show it to anyone, much less to teach it in any world event.

If you add to that the fact that my friend and teacher Mahmoud Reda is always waiting for me to show him my latest "creation" before I teach it to anyone, then you have the perfect formula for a nerve recking state of mind.

I drink a sip of my water and look at myself in the mirror.

"What s wrong with you, girl?!" - I say, almost screaming, to myself and annoyed at myself as a mother facing her naughty, undisciplined child.

You have the knowledge, you have the vocabulary, you have the talent, says the best part of me, that zone where my mind does not play tricks on me and can actually act like she s a true friend of mine.

I try again and again and nothing comes up. I don t know if the water on my face is just sweat or some of the tears that pour from the most fragile corner of my artist s vulnerable heart.

Always wanting to surplant myself. Always searching, not for the novelty, but for the movement that will express TRUE LIFE. Not an easy task, quite a strange lunatic one, even...

And yet I try and try. And do not allow myself to quit.

This is a kind of a battle between me and myself.

I remember Mahmoud (Reda) patiently pushing me forward and assuring me that I CAN do this. I may be an improvizer by nature but Choreography is the demon battle field where I discover who I am, where are my limits and where can I go to GROW as a dancer.

And I feel that deep frustration of not being able to do what I KNOW I can do.

The body has its strange ways and timings of doing things. You can order it to walk and run, if it wants to, but you shouldn t dare to command him like a dancing Hitler when it comes to CREATION.

The body has a mood and a life of its own and, some times, it just closes itself in its shadow...and I wait, as tenderly as I can, for the unexpected moment when my body allows God to speak through me and then I laugh and wipe off those sweet tears and sour sweat from my face. "Oh God, it is coming...it s arriving!" - I think to myself.

This is the moment when Divine intervention starts pouring its colours and patterns through my frustrated, palpitating wet body. And it doesn t stop for a few hours.

I never know when the miracle of creation happens. I can never force it, although I can genlty invite it. Sometimes, I go to the cinema or watch another great dancer to inspire me. Sometimes it is just a poem or a juice seller in the streets of Cairo clincking his metal plates to the rythm of his own frustration or joy.

Sometimes, it all comes from a happy night of love making with my man, or a hug from a friend, the aroma of the summer arriving...God knows what else!

And, when it happens, movements star to flow and unite themselves to my skin and all I can say is Thank you and the only position I know of to match all this creative tempest is a deep, heartfelt bow, lowering myself until I touch the holy ground of a dancer.

And I say, invariably, Thank you.