88//365

once

I watched the performance of a tiny dance that took place on a tiny 4x4 wooden stage located at the base of the portland aerial tram. while silver capsules carrying passengers continued to slide up and down thick steel cables, a handful of us watched the limbs of the dancer slice through air.

144/365

things you hear in a modern dance class, part one:

your pelvis is a bowl
broaden your scapula
let the top of your head float
move in full sentences
let your weight take you
carve out space 
unfurl your spine

(maaaaaaan I miss it)

number 38

"you have to love dancing to stick to it. it gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and maybe hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive." -merce cunningham

and this is why I am dancing again. because I need to feel alive. not just a little bit alive but a lot alive, wholly fully electrically alive. the truth is that I have been holding on by the skin of my teeth for a long time now. I don't know any other way, really. and here was this thing, this spectacular missing piece sort of thing and I couldn't see it, couldn't seem to get to it. for so long, it sort of hovered overhead, in that mysterious space where lovely things tend to hover, seemingly impossibly out of reach, forever and ever amen.

eff it, I said. I'm going to class. and I did. in that first five minutes I felt my body melt into the floor, my hips, my thighs, my shoulders, my ankles, my fingertips, my eyelids, my everything. thoughts scattered, head cleared and for once, grief took a number. had to wait in line, just like everything else. for ninety short minutes, I let go of everything. listened to trains come and go outside, contemplated things like breath and weight. moved through that beautiful light-filled space in the clumsiest, loveliest way. reacquainted myself with that very specific vernacular, the one that only modern dance teachers seem to speak. I was home. am home.

number 38 off the list. four classes down, ninety-six to go. or, a thousand, a hundred thousand, a million, a billion. because if I do nothing else on the list but this, I will have won.

because when people dance

"through time, through the ages, what endures is mostly art. art seems to be everything humankind leaves to its heirs. whether through buildings or books or paintings. or music or movement. or dance. in that sense, I think of a dance performance the most current, the most up-to-date history lesson as it is in a constant relationship with its most recent past and can only happen in the present. dance also somehow doesn't acknowledge borders in the same way as many other art forms. even when certain styles try to limit themselves or work within a frame, the movement of life, its choreography and its needs for flux take over very quickly, allowing certain styles to mingle with others. everything engages with everything naturally. and dance settles only in the space it really belongs to-- that of the ever-changing present.

I believe that dance may be one of the most honest forms of expression for us to cherish. because when people dance, whether in a ballet performance, a hip hop battle, an underground contemporary show or just in a discotheque cutting loose, there are seldom any lies deployed, any masks worn. people reflect each other constantly but when they dance, perhaps what they reflect most is that moment of honesty. by moving like other people, by moving with other people and by watching them move, we can best feel their emotion, think their thoughts and connect to their energy. it is perhaps then that we can get to know and understand them clearly.

I like to think of a dance performance as a celebration of co-existence, a way to give and make space in time for each other. we tend to forget this but the underlying beauty in a performance is that it is primarily the convergence of a mass of people seated one next to the other, all sharing the same moment. there is nothing private about it. a performance is an extremely social experience. all of us assembled for this ritual which is our bond with the performance, our bond with the same present.

and so, in 2012, I wish everyone lots of dance. not to forget all their problems of 2011 but on the contrary-- to tackle them creatively, to dance around them, to find a way to engage with each other and the world. to engage with life as a part of its never-ending choreography. dance to find honesty. and to transmit, to reflect and to celebrate it."

--sidi larbi cherkaoui


(happy international dance day, friends)

dance dance dance

for your friday-- a little excerpt from last night's screening of girl walk//all day at the ace. not sure what I loved more-- the way all that sweet movement bounced off the architecture and everyday action of the city or the wide-eyed way ava took the whole thing in. my dancer self wanted to cry. bonafide dance party, y'all. good times one thousand, anyway you slice it.

p.s. I think ava sort of fell in love with the creep. I think maybe I did too.

number 36

number 36 off the list. well, sort of. I should probably explain.

on tuesdays, dance theater workshop asks their followers on twitter to 'tweet one physical movement (or nonmovement)'. the responses are then put together into one dance and filmed. people, this is brilliant. the very idea that these pieces are the direct result of an ongoing dialogue that takes place in the very strange online world that we all float around in is seriously brilliant. the idea that anyone, anywhere, anytime can intentionally contribute to these dances is nothing short of genius. collaboration via twitter. in this way, we are all choreographers. or can be, if we really want to. what I'm trying to say is that I'm in love.

when I put number 36 on the list I'll admit, I had something completely different in mind. but this is better, infinitely better. I had no idea what a rush it would be to see my one word performed in context with so many others. I love the idea that my word was plucked and thrown into a mess of words contributed by a bunch of people I don't know, that these words were then strung together and performed as one big gloriously athletic run-on sentence. I love it. me and the other 29 twitterers I do not know, we are the co-choreographers and collaborators of community choreography #16. my name is even listed in the credits. which makes number 36 official, so very official. for the record, my single action word was dangle. did you see dangle? good words contributed by others: explode, circumvent, rethink, simplify, flap, expunge, rest, convulse. see? good. so good.

check out the first community choreography challenge (or all of them, if you like). follow dance theatre workshop on twitter and contribute to future community choreography challenges. because you and I both know there's a choreographer inside just waiting to break out.

merce

"I think of dancing as being movement, any kind of movement. And that it is as accurate and impermanent as breathing."

to the modern dance giant who saw all movement as dance-- a man stepping off a curb, a woman jiggling her foot impatiently, a bird arching its bony shoulders-- merce cunningham, you will be missed.

listen

exactly

I watched the annie liebovitz documentary recently and she said something I really loved.



she said that dance is art that sort of lives in the air.



exactly, I thought. that is exactly right. and as much as there was to take from that documentary, that is probably the one and only thing that will stay with me. forever and ever amen. that one sentence, that one idea. and I really sort of love when that happens.

p.s. deets on the above amazing photos:

1. Tami Stronach/Modern Guest Artist@DNA
2. Walking with ghosts
3. Dancing Soul
4. abellernyt
5. Stefanie Nelson/Modern Guest Artists@DNA
6. Untitled

today, you can go anywhere you want

today, you can visit italy. scroll down here until you land on bisceglia, italy part two. you will find yourself in the middle of the most terrific italian alleyway and you will not want to leave. there will be a dance involving two guys named domenico and gilles, freestyle handstands, passing scooters and swooping birds. there will be another dance involving a small group of locals and a bit of giggling. listen to the sounds and it will feel like you are there. you will feel like you are in an alleyway somewhere in italy and it will feel like dance is everywhere. because it is.

today, you can follow margaret kilgallen around san francisco. listen while she talks about handmade signs and wavering lines, watch while she climbs a red ladder in her studio, walk with her through the trainyards. she will talk about where the beauty is and you might find yourself nodding like I did.

today, you can look at 17 things amy made. then you can visit chicago and see what happened when she set out to make the 18th thing. it will make you want to make things, it will make you want to celebrate the things you've already made, it will make you want to cry. I know I did.

wednesdays are for dancing

on wednesday afternoons, I teach creative movement. which is something like joyful (and somewhat controlled) chaos for about 45 minutes. what we are is a soulful mess of wiggling, shaking, spinning and leaping with some floating and melting thrown in just to balance things out. plus, a whole bunch of other things that may or may not involve hula hoops, bags of bright-colored feathers and fat rolls of bubble wrap. we also make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with our feet and swivel our hips to mimic the agitation of nine miniature washing machines. it's all very serious, I promise.

and while I'm on the subject of dance, two things:

1. I am head over heels in love with danceminute-- a blog that posts one-minute videos of dance as seen through the eyes of a new york dancer/choreographer/film editor. it's absolutely brilliant for a million different reasons but mainly because it points the camera at all kinds of dance and breaks it down into bite-sized pieces. if you visit the site and scroll down, you will be able to view everything from rhythmic hand gestures (performed beautifully by a southern iranian in a swiftly moving car) to a late night informal dance showing in soho to a work-in-progress (big love for the swinging light bulb) to the soul tigers marching band breaking it down for the masses in union square. for me, this is beyond good. THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER. honestly, I'm sort of wishing I'd thought of it first but that doesn't really matter. what matters is that someone thought of it, someone is doing it and now it's out there for the world to see.

2. I'm incredibly disappointed to have missed stephen petronio last night. the only consolation is the promise of a couple performances just around the bend-- urban bush women with compagnie jant-bi and the brenda angiel aerial dance company. portland peoples, these are two modern dance performances not to be missed. I promise you, they will not disappoint. unless you are dead inside. in which case, you may leave these performances feeling mildly let down. but then, you're dead inside and I'm sorry but I can't really help you. let's face it, you've got bigger problems. anyway, I first saw the urban bush women back in 1992 (multiple times since then) and remember vividly how absolutely electric they were on stage, how seamlessly they layered text with an athletic style of movement that can only be described as otherworldly. still reeling from the impact, y'all. still sorting out the influence they've had on me and my deep dancer self. I should write more about them, I really should.

so save your green, pdx friends because these two performances are back to back: one night only for the urban bush women (april 2nd) and three nights for brenda angiel (april 3-5).

wow, when it rains, it pours. april showers, yo.

you can dance

for inspiration.

1. My first interview......, 2. handstand + negativa, 3. 365 Days : Day 86, 4. Au seuil de l'être - François Rascalou, 5. Fragment du Boustrophédon, 6. i have a cupcake and i'm jumping hoops because of it futab, 7. Untitled, 8. tsu-mani, 9. Untitled, 10. Exerce 05 - EZLN, 11. Come...on Lift!, 12. 8/20/05, 13. 1. Bill T. Jones, 14. wardrobe remix: twist nov 19, 15. chucks and handstands, 16. reasons so unreal

this story begins in the middle

saturday night: marc bamuthi joseph

tore up the stage with his work-in-progress, the living word project: the break(s)

when I am visually overwhelmed by something, I tend to shut down. or shift into freestyle mode and string my words together in cryptic, uneven ways. a good example of this would be when I visited new york last year. all I managed to produce was a barrage of visual images and a series of non sequiturs describing random colorful scenes that impacted me in varying degrees of greatness. I am often struck dumb when someplace, something or someone sweeps me off my feet. it's as if the words I write might somehow cheapen the spectacular nature of the very thing I experienced. I'm left with no choice but to back off and let it come out however it needs to come out.

so, saturday night. we get to the theatre (me and my great friend amy, whom I danced with for years and years) and we sit down and I open up the program and read something that marc bamuthi joseph has written.

my goal is to embody theater's connection from shakespeare's quill to kool herc's turntables; from martha graham's cupped hand to nelson mandela's clenched fist: a new voice for a new politic.

well, all right then. all right. if you can serve that up then I will cry big fat sloppy tears of joy because that is what I am TALKING ABOUT.

my mind is currently a hot mess of images, words, stories and movement. good art will do that to you. I want to talk all about 1984 and queens, new york. shell toes versus tap shoes and how tokyo felt like times square times 11 plugged into a light socket. I want to talk about strange fruit, haiti and turntables. about how someone can become an MC without saying a word, about how babies come into the world and change our lives, but also about humility and the peculiar place that exists between high art and hip hop. more than anything, I want to talk about how I could have watched marc bamuthi joseph move forever and ever and ever, amen. the next best thing to electricity, the very definition of what it means to be simultaneouly grounded and weightless. old school meets old school: traces of classic modern mixed with the golden age flavor of hip hop. I know I've said it here before but when the dancing is that good, it's like the best ride at the carnival. I'm yanked out of my body to another place and I am as close to flying as someone who is sitting in a stiff chair in a dark theater can be.

I guess what it really comes down to is this: the performance, it profoundly moved me.

it is with great sadness that I say the following. there's not too much in the world that is the performing arts machine that does that for me anymore. I've seen too much, been on stage/back stage/in class/in rehearsal/in the audience for the better part of my 36 years. I've spent large chunks of time dissecting dance from every possible vantage point, tearing it apart and putting it back together. and I'm thankful for that, don't regret even a second of it but sometimes I forget. I forget what it feels like to get lost in a great performance. saturday night was the first night in a really very incredibly long time that I didn't look down at my watch and wonder when the piece was going to be over. I think it was doris humphrey that said that most dances are too long. I'm a firm believer in that. except when it's really, really good and you never want it to end. when it's so good you just want to have a cry over it. so good that you didn't spend the last half hour of the performance wondering what the dancers had for lunch or if they all hang out together when they're not rehearsing. so good that you leave the theater hovering and buzzing in a post-performance cloud of sweetness and light and want to think about it, talk about it, write about it. so good that you give up your chance to see another great dance company that you really REALLY really wanted to see-- just so your husband can go see what you just saw, just so you'll have one other person to talk it over with.

greatest sentence of saturday night's performance, so good I had to scribble it down on the back of my hand in the dark of the theater, lest I forget:

I am riding the lightning of my writing

indeed, I am riding the lightning of my writing. even if no one else is. even though I sort of feel like deleting this whole thing and starting over again. but when I am overwhelmed like this I just have to let it come out how it needs to come out. if you made it this far through the post, through my swooning and singing and rambling-- thank you. and marc bamuthi joseph, wherever you are, you turned me inside out and upside down saturday night-- thank you.

(if he comes to your city, folks-- don't miss it. and all you portlanders out there, the TBA festival is still going on. still time to catch something that might turn you inside out and upside down before it's all over)

space between

oslund and co.

first taste of the portland modern dance scene a couple of weeks ago and I've been struggling with writing about it for days. when that happens, I make a list:

1. loved the ideas behind the piece sky -- exploring the spaces between people. still not exactly sure if that's what I took away from it, but think maybe that's the point.

2. was totally distracted by the music-- musicians who rattled chains in buckets and crumpled paper into microphones while a vocalist half-whispered/half-sang in random fashion. this sort of thing occasionally works but didn't really serve the choreography here. plus, that particular concept is, how you say? played out. which leads me to the next item on my list:

3. wish modern dance wouldn't always take itself so seriously.

4. found great comfort in: the sounds of feet hitting the floor, of bodies moving through space and sliding off one another, the sounds of heavy, even breathing. this is why dance is best experienced in smaller performance spaces-- you can hear bodies moving, you can see the dancers breathing. no substitute for that brand of intimacy.

5. really hate the word 'intimacy'.

6. felt great love and appreciation for the ambitious athleticism of the piece, which stirred up all kinds of feelings of aching and longing.

7. left the theatre feeling so ambivalent. struggling with why.

actually, the feelings of ambivalence are coming from a place that doesn't really have anything to do with the piece. I believe my head is a bit messy because I'm struggling with my place here and the performance left me feeling more lost than ever. I am farther than I have ever been from the world of dance and this absolutely terrifies me. in atlanta, I had a community-- students to teach, classes to take, choreographers who wanted to work with me. here, I am starting all over again. which is exciting for me in almost every other area but this one.

I think maybe I am trying to decide if I have it in me to start again. I think maybe I am scared of the answer, either way.

everywhere

I've been trying to open my eyes in different ways lately, broaden my scope of thinking. I'm taken by the idea that inspiration comes from so many different places, in so many different ways and mostly, at the oddest times.



if you fold up and close yourself off, it's impossible to see this. I don't even think I realize I'm all folded up sometimes. I try hard not to think of all I've missed along the way because I wasn't looking, because I wasn't paying close enough attention. instead, I try to think about the things I haven't missed, how some of those sparks turned into great fires. also, I like to think about what's ahead and just around the corner. I think maybe that's why taking a photograph on the daily feeds me like no other creative project ever has before.



merce cunningham talks about how he 'sees all movement as dance: a man stepping off a curb, a woman jiggling her foot impatiently, a bird arching its bony shoulders'. one of the greatest choreographers of our time gets the everyday thing in the most profound way. truly, the most powerful dances I have ever been a part of were ones that were born from the simplest gestures. movements that normally would've gone completely unnoticed took on great significance, were woven into distinct patterns and rhythms. in this way, they were given a voice and a sense of permanence.



then yesterday, I was reading about how these rusty red oil drums in texas were the inspiration for earrings made by sulu-design. I am in love with the premise of this (and crazy about the earrings too). she's been inspired by (and created earrings after): a fruit stand in queens, a favorite hotel lobby, a neighborhood laundromat and perhaps my favorite: yellow patio furniture spotted in brooklyn. I imagine wearing a pair would lead to thinking about the how they came to be. which would of course lead to talking-- I think I would always want to talk about that fruit stand or the yellow patio furniture, even though I never saw any of it for myself. I would be wearing a piece of that everydayness, a tiny fragment of inspiration from a different time and place and that would be enough for me.



the more I look, the more I see. I'm not sure what to do with it all, but I like the idea that it exists: colors hidden all over the city, neighborhoods that appear out of nowhere, unlikely musical instruments, accidental street art, pedestrians unknowingly participating in random dances, extraordinary pattern and design in cluttered storefronts. there's an infinite accessibility in this way of seeing, endless possibility in all of it and I like that. I really like that.

self portrait #29

hello, I am a mover.

I flex and point my feet. slowly, carefully, always as if I were pushing my toes through peanut butter. I enjoy the slight, starry pain that travels from the densest part of my calves up to the section directly behind my knees. instantly, my legs feel longer, a little less angry with me. when I feel overwhelmed, I stretch my arms out wide. I think of them as weightless appendages and they float up towards the ceiling. this almost always makes me feel like everything is going to be okay.

I see dance everywhere. I make small dances in my head that may (or may not) include the gestures of what I see around me. the way my groceries were bagged, the way the woman at the next table told an entire story with her hands, the uneven swagger of the boy on dekalb avenue. everyone is a dancer. rhythms and patterns are everywhere. random conversations and unrelated gestures remind me of pieces I've performed, dances I want to make. when I was younger, it was all about tricks. the higher the leg, the greater the leap, the quicker the turn, the better the dancer. we defined ourselves in this way, measured our worth as movers according to skill. somewhere along the way, I let that go. and when I did, the world opened up for me in ways I couldn't believe I'd never seen before.

I tried to give it up once. after ava was born, I questioned everything. I thought maybe this part of my life was over. a close friend and fellow dancer reminded me this would not be so easy to do. she said dance was as much a part of who I was as the color of my eyes or the sound of my voice. and deep down, I knew she was right. inevitably, it would come back. quietly through the back door, slip in through a cracked window, show up unannounced at the most inconvenient times.

so I am not performing like I used to. I'm lucky to take a class a week. I'm not sure if the dances in my head will ever be anything more than that. I'm not exactly where I thought I'd be. sometimes I am okay with this, sometimes not. the one thing I do know is this: I'm a mover, I'm a dancer. I can barely sit still and I can't hold back. and I am never more sure of myself than when I am dancing. this is when I'm most alive.


(the last of the introductions are here)

thank you, ward-- for the taking the photo

self portrait tuesday #23 (all of me)

(ward is responsible for this great shot, by the way)

well, this is a beauty pageant compared to the way my feet usually look. originally, I wanted to show my feet in all their gritty post-dance class glory, but thanks to ward's animation shenanigans last week and various meetings and deadlines, I will not be back in class until next week. by then, this particular self portrait tuesday challenge will be over and we'll all be onto the next one. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to move on. because aren't you just a little grossed out by my feet here? aren't you gagging just a little bit? I am. I mean, I love feet. I think they're really cool and beautiful but it took everything in me not to retouch and tweak until the cracks and calluses could no longer be seen.

but these are my ugly bits. the cracks seem to re-open every time I take class and the calluses never go away because I walk around barefoot on wood floors everyday. after class, they are covered with dirt and black from the marley floor covering of the space. I've always loved going barefoot and there's a price to pay for that. as a kid, I'd happily scorch my feet walking across hot rocks and concrete in the summer time. in the winter, socks always made my feet feel hot and restricted. and then came modern dance. going barefoot was (is) a direct rebellion against the confines of ballet (one of many ways modern dance has distinguished itself within the art form). and you know that I could go on and on here (because I love me some dance history) but all I really need to say is thank you. thank you, isadora, because I love the way it feels and feet should be free to move and connect with the floor. there's a give and take of weight that you can't feel wearing shoes and there's an undeniably gorgeous quality that comes from the mover. but of course, feet rip and burn. on the last day of ADF, I could barely make it through class, my feet were in such horrible shape. raw and bleeding. all taped up so I could at least finish the last of the session. and I think I might be strangely proud of that, proud of my feet and all that they've endured-- in a very sort of corny, self righteous way. (think debbie allen, a la 'fame' and yes, it's funny but right here, right now is where you start paying. IN SWEAT. I hope you just went there with me. didn't you? please say you did).

in defense of my personal grooming habits, I think I should say that I do make an effort to take care of my feet (when I can). I love pedicures, though will someone please help the woman who has to make my feet pretty? I usually end up apologizing all over myself and sit there in shame while they slough away. then I leave a big tip and enjoy my semi-smooth heels and candy-apple red toes for about all of 24 hours. my brother likes to say that I don't really even need to wear shoes anymore. that the skin on the bottom of my feet has, in fact, become my very own pair of shoes (custom made, cultivated from a lifetime of abuse and neglect). that I wouldn't even feel it if I walked over a big rusty nail or a small fire. funny. YOU'RE A FUNNY FUNNY MAN, NATE. people are always giving me pedicure kits and minty foot lotions and I love it all and I do use it but it doesn't seem to make much of a difference. my feet are what they are.

actually, I'm surprised at how much my feet will tolerate. I'm impressed with their strength and durability and, like the maternity underwear I wrote about last week, I respect the fact that they've seen battle. I should treat them better than I do, I know this. that's why sometime in the next couple of days, you are going to see them all gussied up in a pair of purdy little socks and some purdy shoes. and I'm going to get out the peppermint foot lotion too. because writing this has got me thinking that these old feet deserve better.

(more ugly/lovely bits here and here)

zippity doo dah

each thursday morning, I head downtown to teach a creative movement class to three and four year-olds at the childrens shelter. I've been wanting to write about these mornings for so long. so many fantastic little things happen during the course of those sixty minutes. though every time I sit down to write, I am overwhelmed by all the goodness. it's not me, it's all them. I find it incredibly difficult to put into words the way they melt me and make me want to live a brighter life. each week, I come to the shelter and find them wide-eyed, circled up and ready to move. I say magic words that launch each child into glorious, perpetual motion and people, it is near impossible to resist this kind of whirlwind. always ALWAYS some shaking or wiggling going on. we make fake peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with our feet and jump over imaginary mountains. we take bows and applaud each other.

and just so, so much more. more words for another day.

self portrait tuesday #18

I don't know when it happened. I started collecting vintage brown suitcases and couldn't stop. the old ones are lined with coarse satin and smell musty, like old cologne. they are square in shape, sometimes with stripes and I imagine them once being stuffed full with things like stockings and garter belts, blouses and tins of crusty rouge. I imagine they were most at home on trains and buses and in the roomy trunks of old cars, though the ones I have managed to snatch up in past years aren't going anywhere anytime soon.

they have been stacked on either side of the bed and lovingly filled with my history. one suitcase holds all the souvenirs we brought home from our trip to italy (including a little handful of dirt I swiped while we were standing in a field of sunflowers in tuscany). when I open this particular case, it smells like italy to me-- sweet and earthy. another suitcase holds all the love letters, notes, cards and mix tapes I have ever received from ward. I turn several shades of red just thinking about those steamy steamy words waiting to be discovered and wonder if we can bear the consequences of holding onto them. I cringe (and am sick to my stomach) when I think of ava and ezra reading those letters someday. though I could never ever actually bring myself to throw any of them out. another suitcase holds scrapbooks I made growing up, and another holds every journal and diary I ever kept. and the cutest little piece of luggage (that you'll ever lay eyes on) holds all my favorite random special things: a red paper dragon from a chinese new years celebration in new york, a birthday crown made of shells, a swatch of fabric from a costume of an african dance I was in, pearlized chopsticks and coins I brought back from japan, an antique black shawl ward bought me while we were on our honeymoon in new orleans, my college diploma, my photo ID card from the american dance festival, the earrings I wore on our wedding day, my grandpa's black leather watch, the metal tap off the shoe from the first musical I ever performed in... and the list goes on and on and on. anytime I am in the mood to look back (or in this case, examine personal history) I consult the suitcases.

and the suitcases said, "here. look at this one. tell us you don't see a huge chunk of your history right here." oh, yes they did. and the suitcases never lie, people. why would they? what would they have to gain? really, I don't think they're capable. this photo that I found stuck between the pages of an unfinished scrapbook was taken at a time that could be seen as the beginning of Adult Me. I had just moved away from home for the first time (here to atlanta), had just started school, had just begun to work with moving in the spirit. I had my own apartment and was paying my own bills. that day, ward and I were goofing, just driving around downtown atlanta when we discovered a stunning wall of graffiti infamously known as the civic yard. thinking back, I can't believe I got out of the car and posed barefoot for the camera there, all that broken glass and god knows what else. I'm sure I wasn't thinking or maybe I didn't care. years and years later (nine, to be exact) I would become a piece of that wall (look here). and I wonder what I would've thought, had I been able to see the history of my years laid plainly before me. my life in atlanta, my life with someone that would go on to become the father of my two children and a graffiti writer that would paint me as a new mother (only a few steps away from where I was spinning that hot sunny monday afternoon in september of 1992).

the civic yard is no more. for so long, it was a legal wall where graffiti writers were able to paint without fear of being arrested. and then crappy uncool people came in and destoyed the goodness and that's that. it's a boring story as old and predictable as every hollywood movie ever. I'm okay with it, though. landscapes change, people change. if I need a nostalgia fix, I go to the suitcases. the suitcases are always there.

(more gorgeous, fascinating SPTs here and here)

dance class

photo by david olivari.

class was so good the other night that I slept in my leotard and sweats. walked in the door of my home and crashed, deliciously exhausted yet strangely energized and ready to take on whatever the world might be dishing out. with as much as I have been squawking about getting back into it, I finally felt like my foot was in the door of a place I have not been to in some time. oh, I have been going to class but really struggling to find my way back.

just getting myself there every tuesday night feels like an impossible feat, one that I am continuously attempting with what feels like several large rock-filled bags attached to my body. slow and deliberate and just a little bit agonizing. ava takes creative movement at the beam right before my class and so there's a whole special tuesday night routine that must be carefully followed lest things fall apart at the seams and wreak havoc on the entire evening. it starts with dinner (which must be served early) and is then followed by a drawn-out potty time that absolutely positively must take place. then comes a whole mess of dance clothes that have to be squeezed into while ezra runs amok. there's the hurried round-up, the packing of everyone in the car (which often feels like I am collecting marbles that are rolling in all directions). there's the trip to pick up ward at work downtown whereupon I try not to race and swerve and pass and speed. we sing along to 'they might be giants' here come the ABCs (at the top of our lungs, natch) and we do this to get excited about dance class. but also to keep ezra from falling asleep. if he sleeps early then there will be hell to pay and we might be in for an epic struggle at bed time involving relentless whining that will feel a little like chinese water torture and will make us want to whine and cry too. so I feel like I am tormenting ezra by tickling him, singing loudly or rolling down the window a tad for 'a little bit of cold air' to keep him awake but it must be done. normally, I would not have him in the car at this time of day, but it is unavoidable. why don't I just prod him with an electric stick? I feel like a horrible mother. and nine times out of ten, he falls into a deep sleep by the time we pull up to ward's work. then there's the fight to make it through traffic the short distance to moving in the spirit, where class takes place. we struggle to make it on schedule and by the time we pull up, I am on edge. I hate being late. after ava's class is over, ward takes both of the kids home while I stay to take (the oh-so-fantastic) wayne smith's 7:45 modern technique class. but by 7:45, I am depleted of about 98% of my energy. my reserves are low and I wonder how I am going to make it through class. I'm tired. I want to go home and cuddle up on the couch with ward. but I stay. I stay because I remember how important it is for me to stay, how good it feels to move, to sweat, to dance. I stay because I can't give up on that part of me. and I try not to think about the times in my life where class was an everyday occurrence, late night rehearsals were the norm and I try not to think about how much I took all that for granted.

and so I am there. I have been getting myself to class for a while now but this tuesday night felt different. oh, I was still tired but once we started moving, things started to feel electric. when you are dancing and everything is working the way it should be, it feels a little like your body is taking you for a ride. everything you have is engaged- brain, muscle, skin, bone, organs, nerves, cells, blood, breath, EVERYTHING. muscles expand and contract, the back widens, shoulders relax and drop, the chest opens up. your movements are weighted but you feel like you are floating. mad energy spirals up and out of the core of the body, out through the fingertips, the top of your head and every part of you feels like it is alive and buzzing. you are moving through space fully and effortlessly and it feels exactly like it sounds. it feels AMAZING. it's glorious, such a thrill. it's a little bit like flying and yes, a lot like a good ride at the carnival. don't get me wrong, you are working and thinking and (best of all) sweating (oh, the sweating) but it feels more like the natural, automatic rhythm of breathing. which is where I found myself the other night.

my chica danette says that dance 'shakes things loose and free' and I think there is no better way to say it than that. which is why I keep dancing. and why the fight to get there is worth it.

(check out this photographer's beautiful work on flickr. he is responsible for the stunning photo above and best captures what movement really feels like, I think. I am especially taken with this set. oh yes, and thank you wayne.)

self portrait tuesday #13

I look at this photograph and and can't help but remember how idealistic, how optimistic and free-spirited I was at age twenty-four. I was a newlywed, therefore I walked around in a perpetual state of bliss. I was also knee-deep in the joyous trenches of dance-- teaching, working with kids in the inner city, performing and finishing up a degree in dance education. I was so on fire to change the world.

so, I'm a little different now. ten years will do that to a girl. I'm a little less optimistic, a little less free-spirited, a lot less idealistic. a little broken maybe. but so much stronger and smarter. and seasoned in ways I never thought possible. I know who I am. the barefoot girl whipping her skirt around in the photo still buzzes around inside my head. she is occasionally called upon to breathe new life into the beat down part of me that hangs on by a thread. and she represents a sacred facet of my identity I hope to hold onto for the rest of my days. though I keep this photo around as a reminder. just in case I forget.

(take a little looky at what others doing for the self portrait tuesday identity challenge.)