I have to say that he was the only instructor who listened to me. He never criticized me. He gave me credit for everything I contributed and he never tried to change me to be like him. I never felt stupid because if I had a question he answered it. He n.v ever let my age get in the way of my learning and sharing. He allowed me to take education back to my work as a teacher. He saw my culture and my ethnic background as an asset to the class. He even went on to learn Spanish the right way. Not just language, but living and cooking. When my friend passed away who was also a teacher and student in her class. He let me cry in class. He let me present later. He called me and said he was sorry. He was the best instructor compared to her other team members.thank you Jonathan.  You were the only instructor I addressed by first name. Sorry you left us so young but you are now with our friend Rosalie speaking in Spanish. You are in my autobiography with the kindest words.

Jim Gray asked me to join Jonathan Lovell to serve as Co-Directors in the development of the San Jose Area Writing Project. The years of our partnership proved to be a personal and professional challenge that we fostered as we established a deep and lasting friendship. Jonathan and I shared our homes, families and friends. Ambrose and I were pleased to meet Ellen who soon became his wife and our friend. We knew that meeting was one of the best things to happen  to him, as she brought him great love and happiness. 

Another of Jon’s favorite poems, in honor of his own father's passing in 2003.

A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

As virtuous men pass mildly away
And whisper to their souls to go
While some of their sad friends do say
"The breath goes now," and some say, "no,"

So let us melt, and make no noise
No tear-floods nor sigh-tempests move.
Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

John Donne

We echo the same sentiment today for Jon, which he expressed so well then:

Happy belated birthday, Lad - we won't forget ye anytime soon, 
dance with the gods  ~

Jonathan's favorite poem was Ozymandias.  This poem fascinated Jonathan as a young man and his interest in it continued for the rest of his Life.  In my little garden railroad of "Fretwell Falls" I have a miniature figure "The Traveller" regarding the head of the statue in honor of Jonathan. (The Allosaurus was a joke between us as Jonathan also represents The Mariner in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by Coleridge, at the end of the tale being pursued by a "Frightful Fiend" in the "Poetry Corner" of the little village of Fretwell Falls). Enjoy the poem and the link below it will take you to Jonathan's Blog where he wrote a very interesting essay about this poem.

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley


Ozymandias: The Poem We Teach and the Poem Shelley Wrote

 By Jonathan Lovell 

https://jlovellsjawp.com/2017/08/25/ozymandias-the-poem-we-teach-the-the-poem-shelley-wrote/

I find it striking that Jonathan who was such a humble, kind, giving, and charming man was so fascinated by this short poem that epitomizes Human Arrogance.

Maybe the interest was that Jonathan himself had no need of a statue or to carve himself words in a pedestal to declare his great great works. His gentle words of advice and encouragement , his twinkling eyes and brilliant smile live on in the memories of all who knew him.

That is a legacy that won’t crumble into the sand and be forgotten

Jamie Tanner 

Here is a story and pictures that Jonathan shared with us in 2005 about losing his beloved Saab to the sea.

It is an illustration of how humble and self-deprecating he could be. Many people would have preferred to forget this adventure, but, instead, Jonathan decided to write about it for his friends and his writing program. 
--------------------------------------------------
From: Jonathan Lovell
Sent: Thursday, July 21, 2005 4:11 PM

Here's the "Saab Story" I wrote for the writing program I co-direct in the summer for practicing teachers, as well as some dramatic photos showing what happened to my Saab about 3 hrs after the events I narrate in the story.

My very best,
Jonathan
-------------------------------------------------
SAAB Story
by Jonathan Lovell

"Jeez, Pam, how'd your knees get so banged up? They look really bruised."

"You don't remember? Last Monday?The boat?Me screaming at Chang to get out of the water?"

Jeez.I do remember.It comes back in a rush:

I've suited Pam and Chang up in yellow foul weather parkas and life vests. Chang looks uncomfortable, a sausage spilling out of its partly enclosing roll."You can unzip the vest for now, Chang. We're not on the high seas yet."

"Ellen, you take the stern line, farthest from the car."Good thing we've both done this so many times before, I think.My wife at least will know what she's doing.

"Pam, you hold this other line and walk down the wharf as the trailer sinks down into the water.That will keep the boat's bow close to the wharf as it floats free of the trailer."

"Chang, you help me release the boat's bow from the trailer.Are you wearing flip-flops?"

I back my SAAB slowly down the ramp, repeating what I've done hundreds of times before:put right arm on back of driver's seat; twist to get as full a view as possible out of hatchback's rear window: lift self slightly off the driver's seat to peer 'downwards' at the trailer and ramp.It's sinking into the water just as it should.Further.Now it's under entirely.Boat begins to lift off.Wind slides it just a bit to the right.Will Pam know to hold tight to her rope to keep the back of the boat close to the wharf?

Boat's ready to launch.Pull on the emergency brake.Shift car into neutral.Keep engine running.Slight gurgling sound from the partially submerged exhaust pipe.Is that OK for the car and engine?Couldn’t be too bad.Already driven it 272 thousand miles.

I lower the automatic window, open the door, and walk back to the fully submerged trailer.

"Looks just about right." I think."Boat looks graceful, confident. Rocking slightly on the water, her sails hoisted, she's ready to go.The wind's still fairly light. That'll make this launch much easier.Good thing.Pam and Chang won't be so worried."

Jeeeeeezus!

The car is rolling backwards towards me, back bumper underwater in seconds.What's going on?Who’s driving this thing?Back wheels and fenders underwater.NOW THE WATER'S FLOWING INTO THE CAR!STOP THIS CAR! SOMEBODY STOP THIS CAR! OH CHRIST! . . .REWIND! . . .REWIND!. . .REWIND!

There has to be something I can do.Grab hold of the back fender and door handle and pull car BACKWARDS up the ramp?No good.Water's now rushing and swirling INSIDE the car, wanting to claim it, swallow it. I reach in and grab the wheel, hitting the windshield wiper rocker switch by mistake.The wipers swat plaintively at the sea water as the car is swallowed deeper and deeper.

"My poor baby!" I think."I can't let her go down so dishonorably.She's like a dignified old woman no longer able to keep her slip from showing beneath her skirt!"

Swat . . .swat . . . . . swat . . . . . . . swat.

Water now fully claims the car."Will the wipers still keep trying to wipe the windshield?" I wonder."Poor baby!"

I reach in through the opened window, half swimming to the wheel, and turn off the wiper switch.

"Jonathan, are you crazy?" Chang yells."Get out of that goddam car!"

I do, half wondering "Does a captain go down with his car?"

My SAAB continues to roll steadily and inexorably down the ramp.

It is soon wholly swallowed by the sea: front bumper, headlights, hood, windshield wipers.

Jonathan was a charter member of the Campbell SCD Class.  He started with us in 2001 at the Campbell Community Center, and continued dancing with us off and on for many years. With his handsome face and sweet nature, he was always our class treasure. I have added some photos (2001-2006) to this gallery.  Each of these photos brings back precious memories, and I am happy to share them with those who shared these experiences.

As memories of Jon flood my soul and I seek to hold onto them, thereby holding onto him, by writing them down, his exceptional qualities rise to the surface.  One quality among many that stands out is his delight in life.  A strategy he had for achieving that was a developed ability to ignore certain things, instructions or people, he did not want to hear.

One memory of this is on a Sunday afternoon when we were all in the kitchen, standing around formulating plans for an evening get together.  Jon was sitting at the breakfast counter, reading the comics.  He never showed up for our evening gathering.  When we chewed him out, he said he had no idea we were planning that, and so had gone off with his friends.  Later, when he was reading the comics on another Sunday afternoon, I tested him.  ‘Jon,” I said.  -no response.  “Jon”, a little louder.  Nothing.  ‘Jon” I yelled and shook him.  He looked up, startled.  “What?” he asked, a little dumbfounded.  “Did you hear me the first three times? “  I asked.  What first three times?  He asked.

One stormy summer day, the wind was high, the waves were high and Jonny thought it was a perfect day for sailing.  Somehow, he convinced my mom to let him go out.  The one condition was that he had to stay near the shore.  We watched him from House Rock as he hiked out on our little sailfish, an all wooden boat that was a precursor to a sunfish.  It was just a thick slab of wood with a mast and sail, no little depression to sit in.  The wind was strong and he clipping along, riding on the thrill of it.  Suddenly a big gust came along.  Jon held the sheet and hiked out to balance the boat.  The boat did not tip over, but the wooden mast suddenly snapped right off.  When Jon came ashore, everyone was furious at him for being so foolhardy, and for needlessly ruining our boat.  Jon tried to look forlorn and repentant, but he could not hide the gleam in his eyes at the thrill of his adventure.

One winter we went on family trip to Bermuda.  I remember Jon writhing on the floor in pain by the coat closet the week before we were to leave.  I still have that image in my memory because it was so uncharacteristic of Jon.  It turned out he had appendicitis.  He flew down to Bermuda a few days after the rest of us, without his appendix and with a new scar on his abdomen.  He was to relax and not do any strenuous activity, especially not swimming.  He lay there on the beach in his swimming trunks for a few minutes, watching us frolicking and swimming in the warm water.  Next thing I knew, there he was swimming beside us.  Jon healed up just fine, following his own orders.

Jon successfully maintained this quality throughout his life, letting nothing he could ignore get in the way of his enjoyment of life.    A summer or two ago, we were having our annual multiage kickball game at our family reunion on Squam Lake.  The one year old was carried around the bases and got a home run.  When Jon was up, he hit a good kick, and made it to second base.  On the next kick he slid into third base and barely was safe.  But he groaned loudly, got up and limped around, holding his hip.  Oh, I thought, now Jon’s finally going to act his age.  He’ll come over and join me as an oldster on the sidelines.  His grimace showed that it clearly hurt as he limped back to his place on third base.  And it still hurt as he hobbled into home base with the next hit.  But he stayed in the game, still enjoying every minute of it.

.Jon lived life to the fullest,  sharing his  enthusiastic enjoyment with all of us who were fortunate enough to be with him.

When my brother Jon and I were young, on many summer afternoons when it was too hot, or it was raining, or it just was, the neighborhood gang gathered on the big front porch of my house.  We often played Truth or Consequences.  Our game had about five categories:  Truth or Consequences, Burning House, Dare, and two others I do not remember.  It was no fun to ask Jon an embarrassing question for Truth or Consequences, because there were no embarrassing questions for him.  I think one time when we were so frustrated that we could not think of a question that embarrassed him, he said, with his big grin, ‘ Give me the consequence then.’  He loved the challenge of the consequence.  So from then on, we always made him choose Dare.  But there was nothing he did not dare to do.  ‘Walk all the way from one side of the porch to the other on the railing.  Okay, now do it with your eyes closed.  Okay, now do it walking backwards.  Okay, climb up to the top of the pine tree and sit on the tallest branch and count to ten.’

I am sure I was more scared watching him than he was scared doing the deed.

I remember one dark night, maybe it was just a dark winter evening, we were in the big Park Street house alone.  It felt big and dark, and there was just the two of us.  I heard a noise and I could imagine some black, hooded figure creeping around on the third floor.

‘It’s okay’ he said.  ‘It’s just the wind.’

‘Aren’t you ever scared?’ I asked him?

He thought a minute.  ‘Well, yes,’ he said, ‘sometimes I am.  But I am acting brave so you won’t be scared, and that makes me feel not afraid.’

I admired his courage, envied it, and wished I could emulate it.

When we were teenagers, we spent winter vacation weeks skiing at Canon Mountain in New Hampshire.  Jon loved skiing down the black diamond trails, the expert trails.  I was quite comfortable on the intermediate trails.  But one evening, when Jon was describing how thrilling it was to ski down the black diamond trails, and how beautiful the view was, I asked him if he thought I might be able to ski down a, perhaps easier, black diamond trail.

‘I’m sure you could,’ he said with his usual enthusiasm.  ‘I’ll take you down one tomorrow.’



The next morning, I got off the chair lift and found myself in the middle of a steep cliff filled with moguls.  When Jon skied up beside me, he said, ‘What do you think?  How does it look?’

I was frozen in fear, too scared to cry.  ‘I think I’ll take off my skiis  and walk down.’  I said.

‘Well, you could do that, but the snow is deep and you would sink in up to your waist with every step.  It would take you all day to get to the bottom, and you’d be freezing, besides that you’d ruin the trail.’

‘I can’t ski down this, ‘ I said.  ‘I’m really scared.’

‘Okay, ‘ said Jon, his enthusiasm tempered by a warm thoughtfulness, ‘why don’t you try just side stepping down, like this.’  And he demonstrated. ‘Do you think you could do that?’

He made it look easy, and I found it was easy.

He side stepped down a ways with me.

‘Look’, he said, ‘Here’s an easier part.  Do you think you could traverse across the hill here, and then you could traverse back to the other side.  It would get you down the hill a lot faster than side stepping.’  So I did.  But then the incline was steep again and I was scared again.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘just side step on the scary parts, then traverse on the parts where you can do it.  And remember, the more you can traverse, the faster you will get down the hill.’

Then he said, ‘I think you have the hang of it now.  I’m going to ski down the mountain.  Then I’ll take the lift up, and ski down again to see how far you’ve gotten.’

He had given me the confidence and the technique to keep going, even though I was still scared.  The more I traversed and side stepped, the more in control I felt.  When he found me again, I was two thirds of the way down the trail.

‘The last part is much easier, ‘ he said. ‘Shall we ski down together?’

I was ready to let go of the side stepping, and carefully traversed across the trail, making my way around the moguls.  Jon enthusiastically whizzed by me, jumping moguls and shushing down steep inclines.  But he came to an abrupt stop when he got to the turn in the trail.  He looked up and approvingly watched me slowly making my way down.  When I stopped beside him, he said, ‘Good job!  You’re doing really well.’

When we reached the bottom, I felt very accomplished, and very relieved.

‘Want to go up and try that trail again?’ Jon asked with his radiant smile?

‘No’ I answered, a bit shocked at the idea.  ‘I am going into the lodge to rest for awhile.’

‘Okay’, he said.  ‘I’m going back up the mountain.  But when you come out, find me and let me know if you want to do a black diamond again.’

I never did ski another black diamond, but I always felt good that I had managed to get down that one.  Jon accepted of who I was at the moment, had confidence in who I could be,what I could do, and gently encouraged and helped me get there, that time, and many more times in my life.   And I think he has done the same for many others as well.

Jonathan had a beautiful gift of always looking quite happy and elegant wherever he was going in a dance--whether or not it was where the dance deviser intended him to go. If he was corrected, whether firmly by a teacher or with a frantic whisper from a fellow performer, he would smile and say, "Oh, yes," as if these things just happen in a matter of course, are easily corrected, and it would all be fine. And then he would go where he was supposed to be, and it was all fine. As someone who tends to get all wound up about getting things exactly right, it was lovely to have such a charming and kind role model who so calmly embodied the joy of dance.

Jonathan in his element as mentor, teacher, reader ... with lots of uploads to his own YouTube channel.

Here's one in which Jonathan reads from Steinbeck's Cannery Row.

Perhaps, as he was enjoying lying there resting in his bed on Tuesday morning, he heard someone call him. Perhaps it was Dad, whom he had seen in a dream about 15 years before and who told him to go back, it was not his time now. Perhaps it was Mom, or Charlie Parham,or even a being he did not know. I imagine them calling him, saying, Jon, can you come over here? We could really use your help, your enthusiastic, supportive love would be a big help here.
Of course, Jon gladly went over to help.
When the task was done, he saw his prone body and said,
“But, but....I did not realize I would not be able to get back in.
Oh,I am sorry, I am so very sorry, so very, terribly sorry. I never meant to cause you pain.
Please remember how much I love you, each and every one of you. And please remember my enthusiasm for life, my enjoyment in participating in it with each one of you. Hold me in your memory as the loving, supportive, enthusiastic person that I am. And please know how much I love you, each and every one of you.”
And so we will, I said to myself as my imagination reached completion.
And then the robin chirped happily from the nearby tree,
For quite a long time.

Merrily Lovell ,Sun, May 3, 2020 at 6:45 PM

If you could stand here beside my desk, Jonathan, I’d tell you how much we all have been missing you already.I’d say it was shocking how you just slipped away during a nap.But mostly I’d be weeping with gratitude for you.

Oh my.I am deeply grateful for your life, for the gift of your friendship, for the privilege of working with you, and for the community of people you brought together through the writing project. Retrospect is that magical eye of wisdom that isn’t so interested in how you look as in who you are.

A true leader, you let us each be who we are…then often stretched us to be more authentic.You pressed for truth, not in judgement, but trusting that with the writing, beauty would come along with those truths.And many times, it did.

If you stood here. Well, you do. You are so clearly imprinted in my heart that you do lean into this writing conference, patiently. [He pulls up a chair alongside.]

I really don’t want to share first, Jonathan. Writing this week after your end has been awful. One image from your writing haunted me so I unearthed my ISI 2004 anthology and reread your piece, “Dad,” in which you cared for your father during his last week on earth. At the end you wrote:
It was over. It was a good end.

I had a vision of dad a few weeks later. He was sitting on a bench in a park on Harbor Island that we’d dedicated to his memory, in honor of his love of looking out to sea.His back was to me.“It’s not bad here,” he was telling me, somehow knowing that I’d come up behind him.“Not what I expected, but interesting.I’d enjoy having your company, but don’t rush.Time’s not so important here as it is where you are, and I’m a patient man.”

I heard your cadence and tenderness reading this aloud. Now, remembering many rich years of summer institutes, author visits, grant reports, writing groups, youth camps, meetings and conferences, I say you are a patient man, Dr. Lovell. Thank you for every minute.

During ISI 009, I wrote a sketch: Dr. Jonathan Lovell, director of the San Jose Area Writing Project, is an educational leader who believes in writing, in good teaching, and in the power of giving teachers the respect and voice to present their expertise.  Certainly, his clear, thoughtful perception of what’s really important in a situation is a mark of his leadership. 

“Jonathan.Oh, dear Jonathan,” I breathed into the morning air as I plucked another clothespin onto a damp garment. “Jonathan, ther cap’n,” I whispered as tears spilled. I hung out my laundry as the message of your death sunk into my brain.“This is real,” I muttered, struggling to negate it.

Writing with you and Nancy gave me the courage to write into pain. When she read us her draft, “Five Things You Don’t Know About Grief,” I was astonished. We talked about our lives and read first drafts aloud. You listened for the heartbeat.
Jonathan, gratitude forever. You listened to people the way a musician tilts his head for a note, or a writer pauses for an inner voice. 

During a break between presentations at ISI you’re talking with a participant, a teacher whom I find a bit crusty socially. You lean in, genuinely interested.Ask questions. I am new to co-directing, coping in my new-kid-on-the-block mode.But you are present, and accepting, so this teacher can say what is really going on in her life.

This past summer, I led a short process in our C3WP session.I went out in the hall afterwards, as Jonathan was heading over to get tea.“You were completely comfortable with the teachers, the adults in the room.” he said.I paused, registered my experience, then nodded.“I just wondered if you noticed?” he smiled, and strolled off for Philz.

The space and grace you gave each of us to grow was immense.

Long before you became a writing project director, you concluded your Personal Essay for Williams this way:
…stumbling and bumbling into a similar first year teaching gig at Columbia University’s Teachers College, I rediscovered my former convictions through a book my graduate students introduced to me: Writing Without Teachers, by Peter Elbow. Its central chapters were devoted to conveying the salient features of a “teacherless writing class.”

And perhaps, in holding to this contrarian view of the need for teachers to assume a lowered profile, I was recalling a parting discussion with one of my favorite 10th graders. It was three years later, and I’d more or less packed my bags for Yale University, where I’d be pursuing a PhD in English.

“Do you know what made your teaching special?” asked my young friend.

“Actually no, I don’t,” I replied.

“You knew how to listen,” she said, “really listen to us. And we noticed.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “That means a lot.”

It took your inventive games and patience to get us all on the brain wi-fi together, beyond only seeing the other’s mouth moving.

Another snapshot: Late afternoon in Sweeney Hall Rm 229, when the coaching meetings were done, you were on the house phone by the door, with a handful of computer adapters, the cluster looking like a strange creature’s tentacles protruding from your fist.I hadn’t paid attention until, “Why the fuck…” “these goddam…” “What in the hell …” You were asking an Apple customer service person what we all wanted to know: Why did each new version need a different connection port? Your conversation ended quietly and you went back to ordering the room, updating the whiteboard calendar, and attending to detail.


 

It is a special honor to be gifted with a namesake dance from the longtime Artistic Director of The Red Thistle Dancers, Jennifer Kelly.

On the occasion of his retirement, Jennifer devised a special dance, "Jonathan's Farewell" which was presented as a surprise performance during the New Year's Eve Hogmanay, 2016.

Jonathan responded to this gift with the following public thanks as well as as a humorous dance description interpretation of his own.

=======

Dear Jennifer,

On the final day of the 2013 Invitational Summer Institute of the San Jose Area Writing Project, which would be my 30th and last as a co-director, the Dean of our College of Education presented me with a certificate of appreciation.

“But I have another gift,” she said, “only it's too heavy for me to bring in by myself.”

At that point Charleen Delfino, the high school teacher who’d served as a co-director with me for the first 15 years of the program, walked in the door.

I remember thinking “Well, I suppose Charleen is a bit on the heavy side, but nonetheless that’s not an especially thoughtful way to refer to her.”

Then Charleen’s husband Ambrose walked in the door. 

Then the webmaster for our project, Jay Cohen, and his wife Cindy (who’d served for a year as interim co-director of the program) walked in.

Then tall and stately Jefferylynn Davis, African American, who participated it the institute in 1997 and went on to become the English Subject Area Coordinator for the largest high school district in Northern California.

Then SJAWP Teacher Consultant and middle school English Teacher Jay Richards.

Then Ellen.

Then Al and Carol Adams, the couple who invited Ellen north from Pasadena to assume a position as a special ed teacher in Milpitas.

And then, finally, as about 30 more friends and colleagues walked through the door and began picking up the small plastic champaign glasses that had been provided for the occasion, I realized that this event had to have been been planned, and was meant to honor silly ol’ me.

I was similarly rendered speechless (a rare occasion for me, as you know) by your moving tribute of a dance devised in my honor at last Saturday night’s Hogmanay.

Not to mention your forethought in delaying the introduction of this “mystery dance” until the mid-point of the second set, knowing my proclivities in the “on time” department of things.

I’m quite aware that others who have been similarly honored by you with a dance in their name are quite a bit above me in terms of dance technique and contributions to the group, and this makes me all the more aware of what a singular honor this represents. I’m deeply moved and very, very appreciative.

=====

Jonathan's Farewell, An Interpretation by  Jonathan Lovell


Bars 1-8:
Jonathan meets Paula Jacobson as his first SCD instructor, and “moments" later she leads him towards a group of performance dancers, quite above his level, with whom he somewhat timidly sets in place.

Bars 9-16
The group dances in a circle to celebrate being together, and Jonathan discovers that he has an affinity with certain dancers (Alisa, Cathy, and later Lisa, Diane, and Deborah) with whom he shares mutual interests and passions. He dances a tight gypsy turn with this “collective” to honor this affinity.

Bars 17-24
Jonathan learns to dance more formally, and even on occasion somewhat elegantly, with the help and support of Paula and the encouragement of his new-found friends.

Bars 25-32
Jonathan and Paula return to their appropriate places, now both progressed in their different ways.  Everyone advances, setting towards one another and greeting each other warmly in the center of the set. After acknowledging the abiding nature of their new-found friendships, they reluctantly pull back right shoulders and head back home.

Only to begin again, rather like a Hero’s Journey, with a somewhat new, somewhat familiar group of dancers!

=====

You can view a clip of this dance and Jonathan's special retirement from dancing page on The Red Thistle Dancers Archival site here.  

Jonathan was a member of The Red Thistle Dancers from 1999 - 2016.  

One of the most anticipated of performances was the annual Caledonian Highland Games, held in Pleasanton California.  Here at the final performance before Jonathan's retirement from The Red Thistle Dancers, is the opening medley:  Cross Purposes, Marianna’s Strathspey, and Rosemary’s Reel.

Always an enthusiastic member of the Red Thistle Dancers, Jonathan created his own dancing autobiography which is repeated here: