eye contact

I need to work on my avoidance, stretch my comfort zone. I've never been an especially gregarious person. I can fake it, and fake it well. And once I'm past an initial meeting and know more than the barest superficiality about a person, I'm fine.

But I'm not good if I'm thrown into a new situation with new people without any warning or preparation. That's when I say stupid things, come off as tired or a bit closed off. I just don't know what to say.

I need to work on this. Even though this is my fallback modus operandi, I don't think that is a legitimate excuse for not putting my best foot forward when interacting with my fellow human beings.

I really noticed this the other day when I was walking through a mall. I realized I've become quite talented at skimming over people's faces and focusing on store windows, floor tiles, ceiling fans. I don't mind eye contact in and of itself - I've been taught how to make respectful eye contact in various acting venues for the past decade. In a situation like this though, I need to stop being afraid of it. The world will not end if my eyes happen to meet someone's. Some people are even nice and smile. I need to be one of those types of people.

Folklife

A couple of thoughts inspired by the mayhem that is Seattle Folklife.

1. Large, open spaces in the middle of large, crowded cities always have birds. Pigeons, sparrows, seagulls - there is always some sort of winged beastie ready for a handout. With the thousands of people crowded around Seattle Center, our feathered friends vacated the premises, leaving an avian-shaped void. I didn't realize how big of a void until I found myself throwing curly fries at the numerous dogs straining against their leashes. The dogs looked happy, the owners did not.

2. There are too many buskers. This year, there were rules in place about the various acts rotating spots to ensure everyone could perform. Even so, the surfeit of so-so elementary school violinists, giggling teenagers charging for or giving away hugs, and the musicians of varying talent and personal hygiene left me rolling my eyes more often than applauding. The yo-yo champion was cool though.

creation

I wish there was a blogger for choreography. Given that dance is an art form so reliant on human bodies, it has thus been the most ineffable as far as trying to transfer it into computer code. Musicians have programs like Sonar. Painters have, well, Paint. But what do dancers have? (feel free to let me know if there's a program out there I'm missing).

I don't see solo dances in my head. And when I do, they are 99.8% of the time inextricably linked to a certain dancer, a certain body with all of its strengths and limitations. And I don't see choreography I can/would do on myself, either b/c 1. it's too far out of my capabilities, or 2. b/c I was inspired by someone who for whatever reason, is inaccessible.

I've tried writing it down. There have been several nights where I have forced myself out of that creative goldmine, the soft spot in between awake and sleep, and frantically tried to come up with ways to write down the freakishness in my head. Grande jetes from one side of a room to another? No problem to write down, which means of course that I never think of such simplistic movements.

Actual transcription from such a night three years ago:
R flick turn over, butterfly to over, Tenant of street movement up - another flick turn, right leg passe over, sissone in place.

This made sense at one point, but years and choreographic pieces have come and gone. Now I'm wondering "Flick turn where, to what direction? Upstage, downstage? is that a flick in, or a flick out? what leg was the sissone landing on?" Perhaps more importantly, who was I picturing when I thought of these steps? Did I have an emotional component in mind, under girding the movements?

It's interesting to come back and see how differently I can interpret something I created, but a bit dismaying at the same time.

What do you call it when one piece of art inspires another? Say, a choreographer is struck by the way sunlight bounces off the curve of a sculpture, and then sets out to create the same sense of incandescent motion in a dance? Or a painter sees the same sculpture and abstracts the lines even further?

Who does the art then belong to? Who created it? The dance would not exist without the sculpture, and by that same token, the sculptor. It could be argued that this is hardly different than being inspired by life, but when one piece of art influences another, there is a more definite point of origin for the work/s.

Is this why the audience pays to see works of art? Not just because the starving artist deserves remuneration for their effort, but because the audience recognizes that they are taking away a piece of the artist himself?

My cat can purr, meow, and yawn all at the same time - kind of like a happy gargle.

It would be quite an effective alarm if I could train her to come wake me up in the morning.

Has the rain a father?
Or who has begotten the drops of dew?
From whose womb has come the ice?
And the frost of heaven, who has given it birth?
Water becomes hard like stone,
And the surface of the deep is imprisoned.

~Job 38:28-30

I raise this green to my lips,
this muddy promise of leaves,
this forsworn earth,
mother of snowdrops and of every tree.
See how I'm blinded but strengthened,
surrendering to the least of the roots?
Are my eyes not blown out
by the exploding trees?
The little frogs are rolled up in their voices,
drops of mercury, huddled in a ball.
The twigs are turning into branches, and the fallow ground
is a mirage of milk.

Osip Mandelstam's "I raise this green to my lips ..." from "The Selected Poems of Osip Mandelstam," translated by Clarence Brown and W.S. Merwin. New York Review of Books. Translation copyright 1973 by Clarence Brown and W.S. Merwin

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.