The damn choreography, the damn choreography. I knew that the day would come when I would have to talk about it. The damn choreography, without it I wouldn't be here writing these words. Damn choreography saved my life and got me where I am, and yet I still hate it with all my might. Every time I remember those damn steps, each circle that had to be made with the hands, the smell of rotten hemp in that filthy hovel, the cane rhythmically raising the dust from the floor, and the poor group of creatures that came from nowhere repeating and repeating that awful thing over and over again for so many years. The absurd choreography that was the only knowledge given to us in Duga. I am still ashamed of the people, of their ignorance, which was mine, of their stupid ascetic beliefs that came from nowhere, of their blind faith and without any foundation in that repeated series of movements. How in each sunset ritual two or three claimed to lose consciousness and how faithful they felt to the idente traditions and to Duga. Ridiculous!
I don't really want to describe the choreography, I don't want to have to go over it in my mind again (as if I don't know it). This name of choreography, which I have learned here in Tojé, was very useful for me to be able to forget the names it had in Duga: "Recreation of the seed", "Great passage", "Rumble in the bowels" and other corny expressions that not even the snobbiest elements of the harem would have ever dreamed of here. I still can't understand why none of these words or all the paraphernalia surrounding the extreme poverty of the choreography could ever pass through me while I was in Duga. Nor why, when I got here, suddenly that noise sounded in my body as if I had been carrying it since I was born. Nor why the fucking choreography suddenly broke me inside, took me over and was the only refuge I could find. Not out of nostalgia, not out of attachment. It spread more like a rash on my skin, like a herpes, like I was being doused in scalding hot water. Suddenly it killed my body and left only a mirror of flickering sheets in the air, a jet of water imploding in space, a cloud of dust flying like a flock of starlings, the iron from the center of the earth spreading through the veins of the tectonic plates. Suddenly there was only the choreography. It was not a refuge, it was an open door to the abyss. An open door in the little house on top of the cliff that I dreamed of. The choreography dried me, dried me, dried me. It started to break. One day it would break at one end, another day in the middle, another day it would not start in the same place. It soon ceased to be linear. It immediately lost a feeling of time, it started happening in unison. I had only felt that in the cave. And later, when I was already in the harem, I began to identify lots of things that were happening in my body. I began to differentiate many states that my body went through and to understand the absence of repetition. I realized that it was always different, that new states always sprouted from it. Over the years, in the solitude of my isolation, I found thousands of iterations that could not be reduced to each other. It could be said, and it is ironic, that Aythor became my patron. Ironic because I never understood this as a form of what the harem called art, and to me seemed like a bunch of absolutely useless skills. Not because they had to work like the machines used in the mine, but because they didn't achieve their purpose, which was none other than to fascinate him.