To be a Butoh dancer is to be in “Butoh”/ to be in its stray.
It is to affix a wanderer’s signature jointly in the name of the wandering.
It is to live in the name of many individuals, who originate from the oblivion and loss of ‘self’: living with the confusion of the self as a power.
I myself am a positive tremor three times, or more like a thousand times, the fears and shudders. I am the quivering seeds endlessly scattered.
And am I the life fringed with <burden>— <fortune> scattered from the beginning, something both unique and infinite?
That is a pleasant drift.
I, Ko Murobushi, am a sutasuta bou*.
Just as my dance exists on the edge of the beginning of and midway along the road, my pathetic “body” is non-existence = non-point, glimpsed within the transition, within the blue of this “transition.” To navigate just like flickering, unknown, and innocent stars.
1985 Autumn Paris
*Sutasuta bou: A begging monk from the Edo period that sings and dances while holding a folding fan and staff.