Finally, I practiced a lot of improvisation, both on stage and in the studio as a means toward creating choreography. This practice helped me to develop a pretty high tolerance for not knowing exactly what I am doing. However, improvising movement does not mean you just do whatever you feel like; there is always some kind of structure to follow. But most of the time, that structure would be pretty abstract – having to do with time, numbers, and space (rather than with dramatic intent or emotional content). I think this is directly applicable to the practice of writing. Even when writing something as content-driven as 100 Notes on Violence, I rely very heavily on the structures I set up, allowing for maximum freedom of content. Improvisers learn that tight structures (whether self-imposed or imposed from outside, like the jazz standard) allow for deeper and fuller range. If there’s no structure at all, then one generally just repeats one’s habits. We call that noodling, and while it can be fun, it’s the most boring thing in the world to watch. So, to sum up, I’d say dance taught me a lot about the balancing of discipline—or structure—and freedom, and taught me to hunger after both.

NEG: I’m curious about what prompted the move from writing text as dance accompaniment to writing poetry? You mentioned having been taken with Tennyson in college, when did you become, more or less, a fulltime poet? and how did this conversion happen?

JC: … The less nuts and bolts answer to your question is to say that it was becoming clear to me that there were limits to what I could talk about through dance. Some dancers (K.J. Holmes, Jennifer Monson, Jonathan Kinsell, Steve Paxton, Lisa Race, David Dorfman) seem able to say pretty much anything and everything with movement. I didn’t feel I had that range. Writing presents endless possibilities, which is both scary and exciting. So I went there to find out how many of these I could access. My curiosity about poems (my own and other people’s) is constant and constantly growing.