What’s In A Name?

Rinkha, is based on an old Irish word for dance, spelled rince in the latin alphabet but coming from an oral tradition, coming from a culture that took time to name things like surprise kisses and the glint of sunlight on a raindrop.

Whats in a name? A collection of sounds that convey meaning.
In Japanese, the syllables are Rin – Ka. Phosphorous – Spirit, which feels … close.

To The Feeling, how do I express how it feels to have a burning?
Dance stokes it…

Pressure, judgement, fear, social anxiety smother it… a blanket that leaves the embers smouldering yet it is inextinguishable.

A life force that is so brilliantly intense not many can come close, though it reaches to you, the yearning of the heat of a fire at night.

The loneliness of a soul that requires one to self immolate to get to the centre of it.

Unwieldy at times, outwardly bright, a warm deep darkness.
Charcoal, carbon.

To really dance is to let it burn, and although it gives, it also takes.

It takes fuel, it takes emotion, it takes devotion, it takes an unwillingness to be confined in the patterns dictated to us and it gives more than I ever knew to ask for, a connection to something that is intangibly other yet, somehow, simultaneously, intrinsically human.

Temperance, to feed it.

My heart burns in my chest, longing to be free, confined in flesh, carbon.

Campfire soul.
In a body that’s been so hurt .

I feel crackling in the empty space between the atoms that make up the form that holds me.

It’s so easy to be numb, but it’s a different form of torture than the one of really feeling. To be numb is to let yourself be gnawed at, slowly eaten by the world or you can decide to accept it, to turn yourself into the rapture of life.

Our ability to comprehend life is our ability to juxtapose paradoxes.

Infinitely small and infinitely large, the overflowing fractal depth of meaning and it being a speck of dust, a blink in the eye of eternity, the glint of a sunbeam on a raindrop, everything all at once, the light of a distant star fragmenting to rainbows on a perfect sphere of water, meaning nothing, and everything.

And to have visceral feeling about it all.
To be always almost on the brink of tears, reckless joy, cold critical analysis, the technical chill of a supercomputer, breaking down information how a mushroom devours a log in the forest.

To be fluent in a language older than words… without formal training, with no “technique”, a rough, tribal codex and yet, to feel so alien to the world.

A crackling.

A native spirit, in an industrialised environment.

Separation and loneliness when we live in densely populated spaces.

I wish I was the campfire of a happy tribe.

I want to feel the heat of another love, beyond this yearning,

of heat in the night.

I want to feel connected to it all, and above all, to you.

Not connected to everything and no one.

My tribal body calls to you, beckoning you away from an individualistic tech – cult of social media and no eye contact, to be your safe space to grieve like you need to, from the deepest wound, of being tricked into the notion of separation, thousands of years into the illusion of unknitting.

As every molecule of air dances around you with every flex of muscle… with the slightest intake of breath.

With love,

A

Rinkih.