I love the show So you Think you can Dance. I was and am an ardent fan. I applaud the show's creators for introducing the 18-35 demographic to ballroom and other forms of dance in a more credible fashion than Dancing with the Stars.

However, since the show's blast to popularity, the already crumbling study of dance history has been even further eroded.

One of the most popular categories on the show was Contemporary. It was apparent that Contemporary was a substitute lable for Modern; a label that connoted gay males in shiny unitards, or people wailing about social injustice while covered in glitter. Whatever the stereotype, Modern was clearly weird. Too weird for a mainstream station like Fox. So the label Contemporary was coined, and Modern dance was covertly introduced to millions of viewers.

So what's the problem? After all, Modern dance is an often disputed term in itself, with boundaries in constant flux. It is often explained as "everything that isn't ballet and jazz." Even within this category - Are you a Modern dancer? Postmodern? A ballet dancer that does Modernist choreography?

The catchall medium.

But this is wrong. Modern dance is fully of creative entrepreneurs and imaginaries that still influence Modern dance technique.
One of the most famous names in Modern is Martha Graham. Known for deep abdominal contractions and darkly emotional works, almost all, if not all Modern dancers are influenced by her, whether by using her technique or by refusing to.

Google Jose Limon, Alvin Ailey, Merce Cunningham. These are just a few more names in the Modern dance spectrum.

Can I blame the show SYTYCD for causing the lack of knowledge of dance history, especially among young dancers? No, not entirely.

But ever since the show took off, there has been an highly unusual upsurge of interest in Modern dance at dance competitions and studios. At recent competitions, there have been three times as many Modern entries as in the past two years.

So what's the problem? The problem is that these dances did not show any signs of any Modern technique. Cunningham austerity of line and Balletic vocabulary? No. Graham contractions and extensions of the legs? No. Stylized arms of Ailey? No. Use of extensive floor rolls, handstands, and releases as in release work? No.

The real problem is that dance competitions are inherently segregated. The Jazz dances with ten billion turns and kicks to the ear are over here, while the histrionic flailing of Lyrical belongs over here. Anything that falls outside of these lines is penalized with not as high of a score. And no matter how many times we say otherwise, competitions are about winning.
So, now that Contemporary is acceptable as something just a smidge different than Jazz/Lyrical - maybe arms will be bent instead of straight, a foot will be flexed instead of pointed - the Modern dance category has become the catchall for these slightly quirky but not Modern dances.

How then are dance competitions actually encouraging creativity, teamwork, maturity? If they are all about the tricks, so much so that creativity is either penalized or shuffled into the Modern category as something deviant, what are we teaching this upcoming generation of dancers?

It doesn't help that most of the dancers on SYTYCD were all former competition kids themselves. I don't think the young dancer audience will realize how hard the show's choreographers worked to get competition habits out of all of the contestants. I am afraid that this generation has no idea why they do what they do.

Without history, what does an artform become?

The opposite of hate is often called love, but love can be selfish and one-sided. In situations like this horrendous massacre at Virginia Tech, it seems like a truer antithesis to hate would be caring.

Caring involves giving something of yourself, which is supposed to be true of love as well. However the entity that is love has gotten melted down and pureed in the media machine, resulting in shows that poke fun at the institution of marriage with the bitchy wife and stupid husband, or the over-caffienated, over-sponsored romance machines like the Bachelor.

So I guess the true opposite of hate is love that involves caring, giving, sacrificing - putting someone's needs above your own rather than seeing what you can get out of the relationship.

Care for someone today.

For man is born for trouble,
As surely as sparks fly upward

~Job 5:7

Sick

My cat was no longer a comfort to my weary body as she lay at the foot of my bed, her bulbous bulk pressing against my sweating ankles. Her 16 pounds are formidable on a good night, but the oozing pressure of lard, flesh, and fur was surely going to quicken my impending death by fever and stuffy nose.

I moved my legs away from the unrelenting pressure. An irritated yowl, followed by a noise from my cat's throat that could only be interpreted by a sane person as a death threat, reminded me of my precarious position as 'owner.' I tried not to move for the rest of the night.
~
Morning came. My cramped legs stretched tentatively. Blush was no longer there, lured away by the promise of food and a sunny back porch for bird watching.

My feet somehow found the floor. The Pergo was cold and a bit sticky from the morning humidity. It felt good, as long as I didn't try to walk. Then my inner ear showed its anger, its vengeance on me for catching such a vile virus, as fluid shifted and I found myself swaying towards my mattress and all the comfort that it entailed. Just a few more hours of sleep.

But no, there were things to do this morning. I pressed on, bending over and touching the pale floor with slightly bent knees. I straightened them to a symphony of popping.

A wriggle of my hips. Pop.

A few more plies and straightenings. Pop, snap... crackle.

Roll up through the back and the resistant neck. Big pop.

Now prepared, I slowly journeyed towards the oncoming day, the flesh of my thighs feeling like loosely attached jello swinging about my femurs.

The couch. Under normal circumstances, an ordinary piece of furniture. A lovely if unassuming forest green, as usual as a chenille couch could be.
Ah, but today, this couch was more that an upgrade from Ikea. Today, this couch would be my helpmate, my strength. I would find the inner resistance to the loathsome bacteria consuming my body and defeat it soundly. I would get all of my reading done, two books before lunchtime. There would be time and energy to do stomach exercises and further stretch my aching body. Fever be damned! The couch and I would defeat any obstacle!

Meooooooow.

I looked down. Blush lay there beside the couch, her tail flicking towards me then away, petulance in every movement.

"Oh Blush." My words came out somewhat slurred.

With a launch of her swaying haunches, she settled none too gracefully on my chest and settled in for a nap.

Birthday

My sister Angela turns 16 tomorrow.

My goodness, she's been tormenting and delighting me for the past 16 years!!!!!!

Anyways, I managed to surprise her this morning with a limo ride and lunch/dessert with a few friends. (Our very friendly limo drive is standing in the back). I don't think I've seen Angela that blissed out in a looooong time.

Lunch at Arnie's in Edmonds was spectacular! They gave us complementary sticky buns before serving our decadent desserts.
I am very glad I was able to make Angela this happy.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him, and will dine with him, and he with me.
~ Revelations 4:20

THE STARE'S NEST BY MY WINDOW
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned,
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war;
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

~William Butler Yeats

Could this be me in a few years?

Hence, the academic grappling with his computer, ceaselessly correcting, reworking, and complexifying, turning the exercise into a kind of interminable psychoanalysis, memorizing everything in an effort to escape the final outcome, to delay the day of reckoning with death, and that other—fatal—moment of reckoning that is writing, by forming an endless feed-back loop with machine. ~ Jean Baudrillard

possibly...

waiting...

After a slightly impatient but cordially worded email to the UW's English graduate office regarding my application, I received a return missive that read
"You should hear from us within 2-3 weeks."

Urgh.

No one pretends that the works of Dumas are high literature, or that he stands up to comparison with Balzac, Hugo, Stendhal, or Flaubert. Nothing in his books encourages reflection, or forces recognition, or sounds significant depths. On the other hand, he had a genius for giving pleasure, and for ensnaring the attention of the reader. Once past the initial rumblings of his machinery, his books move into high gear and do not quit; to adapt a phrase applied to another writer, it is harder to stop reading his books than it is to start them.

~ Luc Sante, foreward to The Count of Monte Cristo

W.H. Auden

The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.
Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.
Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.
Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.
Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.
Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.
Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast

"The Fall of Rome" appears in "W.H. Auden: Collected Poems," edited by Edward Mendelson. Modern Library. Copyright 2007 (and also 1976, 1991, 2007 by the Estate of W.H. Auden).

Facebook

Despite seeing numerous peers and profs laud Facebook, I did not hitch my online trailer to this communications phenomenon until months after I graduated from college. I like to think my subconcious was exercising wisdom far beyond my normal means, recognizing the timewasting possibilities of hyperlinking through the entire student body at the University of Washington. After I graduated, losing a part of my identity and social network (@ least until grad school), the voyeuristic pleasures of Facebook began to be revealed.

In all seriousness, I have finally edited my profile a bit, added a pic, added a few friends. But what interests me more than the networking aspect is how this online presence relies on a 'physical' vocabulary.

• poking - even the Facebook creators don't really seem to know what this function is for besides alerting someone else of your existence. Sort of like IMing someone with just a smiley - no explicit message except "I still exist, and I want you to know it." Still, it's interesting that a term so laden with the muscle memory of 'poking' people, a very physical intention, is used
• the Wall - immovable, impenetrable, a barrier, blocking the sightline - words that might be associated with this word so rich in metaphor. It's interesting that users essentially 'tag' each others wall with short, sometimes goofy/crude messages - graffiti for the artistically challenged - thus altering the word's meaning from that of an obstacle to a mutable, responsive pattern of question/response.

Another aspect I find interesting is how the photos are used. I understand having a photo on the profile page, but having one next to every single message can be a bit excessive sometimes. I wonder if the pictures next to the textual message are supposed to help create a sense of physical presence, to make the message resonate more like a spoken conversation. Words leaving my mind, flying through my frenetic fingers, disassembling and reassembling through wires, circuits, and sparks, before finally splatting against the intended Wall.