From the NYT’s beautiful Merce Cunningham obit:

“You have to love dancing to stick to it,” he once wrote. “It gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and maybe hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive.”

I am at work right now in a hazy state of espresso induced half-wakefulness, and could not feel further away from the sentiment behind this quote.

(though, perhaps a twinge of that aliveness this morning when my ctrl-shift-w made a whole row of cells blue in a sprightly!, nanosecond keystroke? or the sheer magic of alt-e-s-t?)