The Center for Immigrant Families is hosting "Our Stories: Our Lives As Immigrant Women," a photography and storytelling exhibition at Carlito's Cafe, running November 19, 2006-January 19, 2007. The opening reception is this Saturday, December 2, 6-9 pm, promising music and food and it is free! I hope to get a peek at the exhibit once the stress of final papers ebbs.
In other news, the Dr. Chapbook launch was intimate and engaging. Dr. Rita Charon spoke of the power of narrative and how a literary approach to medicine can help doctors see from their patients' perspectives, and thus make them more empathetic and better doctors. After her talk, contributors to the zine read poetry and non-fiction, and then the odd duck read her short story "Very Big Furniture".
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Google Me
Last night I went to the closing event for the New York Literary Translation Festival. A whole slew of poets read one to two poems each, which kept the evening nice and varied. Probably the best reading of the night was given by Saviana Stanescu, who read her poem "Google Me!" from her book of poetry of the same name. A hilarious poem, and given her background in the theater, one of the most boisterously and vibrantly performed. Another highlight was José Eugenio Sanchez Garza, one of the six writers representing the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. He read his poem "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" in the original Spanish. Despite my deficiency in Spanish, his animated performance transmitted the gist and I don't think I was the only Spanish-deficient audience member that enjoyed his reading.
Speaking of readings, I plan on reading a short story of mine at the launch of Dr. Chapbook, a new lit/arts zine at Columbia's postbac premed program. That'll be tomorrow at 7:30, if you find yourself in the vicinity.
Speaking of readings, I plan on reading a short story of mine at the launch of Dr. Chapbook, a new lit/arts zine at Columbia's postbac premed program. That'll be tomorrow at 7:30, if you find yourself in the vicinity.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Literary Events
The New York Literary Translation Festival is next week, November 16-18. It will feature readings by Romanian and American writers, translation workshops, panel discussions on translation and publishing, and a closing night party with Romanian gypsy music at the Cornelia Street Cafe. I hope to get out to one or two events.
In other news, I went to the launch party for Collectanea's third issue, which has NYC theme. Highlights of the reading included ruminations on Norman Mailer's obituary, insane uncles, and Lou Gehrig. The issue should be online sometime soon, and will feature a documentary film short that I believe has some psychogeographic NY-theme. I'm looking forward to it.
In other news, I went to the launch party for Collectanea's third issue, which has NYC theme. Highlights of the reading included ruminations on Norman Mailer's obituary, insane uncles, and Lou Gehrig. The issue should be online sometime soon, and will feature a documentary film short that I believe has some psychogeographic NY-theme. I'm looking forward to it.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Floradita
A little vignette, a sort-of-review.
We went to Floradita, a Cuban diner on 125th St. The waiter had a pompadour, the counter top was a large shiny U. We sat in platformed section, looking down. An old man, fierce-eyed and dressed as a sea captain, stood by the door with his hands clasped behind him, a self-elected security guard. We ordered corditas, faintly scented of rum. I ordered the soup of the day, caldo gallego, white bean soup. I wasn't very hungry and expected something small, and the waiter's pursed lips and approving nod indicated otherwise. A hefty dish of white beans, potatoes, and maybe three types of fatty pork. Pork fat, I had always been told, makes everything good. Together we finished the soup and the waiter smiled at the empty plate. Go if you get a chance.
We went to Floradita, a Cuban diner on 125th St. The waiter had a pompadour, the counter top was a large shiny U. We sat in platformed section, looking down. An old man, fierce-eyed and dressed as a sea captain, stood by the door with his hands clasped behind him, a self-elected security guard. We ordered corditas, faintly scented of rum. I ordered the soup of the day, caldo gallego, white bean soup. I wasn't very hungry and expected something small, and the waiter's pursed lips and approving nod indicated otherwise. A hefty dish of white beans, potatoes, and maybe three types of fatty pork. Pork fat, I had always been told, makes everything good. Together we finished the soup and the waiter smiled at the empty plate. Go if you get a chance.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Lillies
I saw The Tiger Lillies last night, at St. Ann's Warehouse. Overall, it was a very fun show, chockfull of the macabre and grimace-laced chuckles. The slow songs (done in a low, gravelly voice) were disappointing, but the more upbeat pieces sung in falsetto got the crowd stamping their feet. After, the S.O. and I danced on DUMBO's cobblestones all the way back to the F train.
In other news, there's a fresh batch of stories up on 55 Words, and if you missed October's goodies, you can always check the archive. Fun!
In other news, there's a fresh batch of stories up on 55 Words, and if you missed October's goodies, you can always check the archive. Fun!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Snippet from a longer thing
The weekend passed slowly, with the Saturday morning walk in the woods (with singing, of course), afternoon game of snooker, and dinner with the Grumleys in the nearby chalet. The Grumleys had two boys and a girl, a yapping terrier named Frances and a rasping parrot named General Attawalpa. Frances, when nervous and especially yappy, usually aggravated General Attawalpa, whose previous owners had taught him to say “Sucks to yer assmar.”
Mr. Grumley, a specialist in Peruvian archaeology at the local university, and Mrs. Grumley, a retired ballerina, took their family on weekend trips about as often as the Pieters. The parents usually had post-dinner ruminations while the children ran off to play, usually right about when Mr. Grumley extracted the pipe tobacco from his left pocket. Mother and Father Pieters generally took Mr. Grumley’s occasional dinner table lectures with good humor, as they were usually truncated by Mrs.Grumley’s inquiries about the development of the Pieters children in comparison to the Grumley children, and often, what that loud ruckus in the rumpus room was.
“Oh yes,” crooned Mother Pieters with earnest eyes, “Our Booboo is the head of his class. He will be a great biologist one day.”
“How nice,” said Mrs. Grumley. “Our Daniel wants to be a cardiologist and our George is an impressive athlete.”
“Now, now, dear,” said Mr. Grumley, puffing on his pipe, “Let’s not brag so much, or the greatness of our children might turn them to stone.” Mrs. Grumley giggled.
“He’s referring to Inka myth, you see,” said Mrs. Grumley.
“We know,” droned the Pieters.
From the rumpus room came a great crash, followed by silence. The four parents rushed in, saw Zanzibar standing on a toppled bookcase, hands on hips, pigtails awry. The three other children stood in one corner of the room, stunned.
“Oh ho ho ho,” laughed Mr. Grumley. “Trying to scale the Andes?”
Zanzibar blew here hair out of her face. “No,” she said, furrowing her brow. “I knocked over the bookcase, Bucko.”
“Now, Zanzi, why can’t you be a good girl for once? Go into the parlor, and wait for us there,” said Mother Pieters. Zanzibar fumed and stomped out of the room. The men re-erected the bookcase, and everyone helped re-shelve.
The littlest Grumley, with large green eyes and cinnamon curls, took her thumb out of her mouth. “Zanzibaw is scehwee,” she whispered to her mother. Mrs. Grumley nodded to her child, clucked her tongue in admiration at her three-year-old’s remarkable astuteness.
Mr. Grumley, a specialist in Peruvian archaeology at the local university, and Mrs. Grumley, a retired ballerina, took their family on weekend trips about as often as the Pieters. The parents usually had post-dinner ruminations while the children ran off to play, usually right about when Mr. Grumley extracted the pipe tobacco from his left pocket. Mother and Father Pieters generally took Mr. Grumley’s occasional dinner table lectures with good humor, as they were usually truncated by Mrs.Grumley’s inquiries about the development of the Pieters children in comparison to the Grumley children, and often, what that loud ruckus in the rumpus room was.
“Oh yes,” crooned Mother Pieters with earnest eyes, “Our Booboo is the head of his class. He will be a great biologist one day.”
“How nice,” said Mrs. Grumley. “Our Daniel wants to be a cardiologist and our George is an impressive athlete.”
“Now, now, dear,” said Mr. Grumley, puffing on his pipe, “Let’s not brag so much, or the greatness of our children might turn them to stone.” Mrs. Grumley giggled.
“He’s referring to Inka myth, you see,” said Mrs. Grumley.
“We know,” droned the Pieters.
From the rumpus room came a great crash, followed by silence. The four parents rushed in, saw Zanzibar standing on a toppled bookcase, hands on hips, pigtails awry. The three other children stood in one corner of the room, stunned.
“Oh ho ho ho,” laughed Mr. Grumley. “Trying to scale the Andes?”
Zanzibar blew here hair out of her face. “No,” she said, furrowing her brow. “I knocked over the bookcase, Bucko.”
“Now, Zanzi, why can’t you be a good girl for once? Go into the parlor, and wait for us there,” said Mother Pieters. Zanzibar fumed and stomped out of the room. The men re-erected the bookcase, and everyone helped re-shelve.
The littlest Grumley, with large green eyes and cinnamon curls, took her thumb out of her mouth. “Zanzibaw is scehwee,” she whispered to her mother. Mrs. Grumley nodded to her child, clucked her tongue in admiration at her three-year-old’s remarkable astuteness.
Crime Prevention Tips
"If you choose to wear your iPod, cell phone, or PDA clipped to your belt for all the world to see as some kind of 21st century status symbol, remember that may not be the best safety practice..." (from the 26th Precinct Community Affairs Unit, emphasis in the original)
...In other words, don't be an idiot.
...In other words, don't be an idiot.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Transfer to Nowhere
In Second Language Acquisition (SLA) there are two types of transference: linguistic and cognitive. Linguistic means you can see the influence of the native language on the second language in the surface of the structure-- grammatical errors, etc. This is part of the "Transfer to Somewhere" hypothesis, that you can see the influence. "Transfer to Nowhere" is more interesting in that it is cognitive and you can't readily see the influence. That is, one could have a perfectly grammatical sentence but it still sounds "off" because a native speaker would most likely never produce a sentence that way-- that your native language shapes how you express your experience of the world. So off isn't necessarily off or odd, I think it could also be refreshingly different. It makes me think about writers working in their second/third/fourth/etc. languages. Did Nabokov transfer Russian onto French onto English? I guess he (and Conrad) might be exceptions because they were so able to manipulate English (and I'm guessing their other languages). But then again, I don't think the influence necessarily causes language to sound off (though in many cases it might, and it does get mixed in with the grammar issues), at least in the cases of talented language users/manipulators.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
The Last King of Scotland
I saw The Last King of Scotland this weekend. What can I say? It made me faint (literally!). I'm not sure it was just the gruesome scenes at the end, though those images did seem to be at the front of my mind at the time. Some reviews have criticized the fictional Dr. Garrigan that becomes Idi Amin's personal physician for being overly naive and blind to the atrocities going on around him for a longer stretch of time than is believable (though honestly time was not clearly marked in the story-- how long had he been in Amin's service before things went bad?). In any case, the film is definitely worth watching (weak of stomach forewarned). Forest Whitaker did a phenomenal job as a charming, paranoid, and horrifying monster. I also appreciated the clips of the real Amin at the end of the film; they seemed to add an important sense of truth, whether or not the viewer was already aware of who Amin was. That those atrocities were real, that atrocities are being committed right now in other parts of the world.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Art & Words
An art book I was very (very) marginally involved with is finally coming out and there will be an exhibit of the work at the New York Open Center October 28-December 4. The opening reception is October 28. It will be a Hallowe'en Party, and costumes are encouraged. Fun!
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Lost At the Aquarium
Eels slithered, sinewy, in the dark water of the dirty tank. Electric eels. Lala stared at them, watched them dance, mouth agape. Absently, she poked at her dry lips, twirled a soft curl. What made them electric, she wondered? She stood closer, pressed her nose to the glass, and smeared her little finger on the fog prints she created. Thought of Miss Janet in a hot pink leopard print leotard, teaching the electric slide in jazz/tap class.
The din of Mrs. Burger’s second grade class trickled away, but was easily replaced by new din. Lala looked at the information on the electric eel’s plaque. She read the words quickly, her eyeballs jumping from line to line, then looked back at the undulating animals.
“Did you just read that whole thing?” a strange woman asked, astonished. Lala didn’t want to hurt the lady’s feelings.
“No,” she said. This seemed to satisfy the adult. Lala looked around to find her classmates gone, the parent-volunteer having ushered them away—but when? How long had she been staring at the eels?
Lala walked toward the exit of the Eel House, picking her nose. She wiped her finger on the yarn around her neck, attached to a construction paper ID card. “LALA” it said in red glitter on glue globs. Her school, grade, and teacher neatly printed underneath in Mrs. Burger’s cautious hand.
Lala wandered from the dark building into the gray light outside. She squinted, and found the penguin habitat. The penguins seemed stuffed, standing so still on their plastic rocks, painted white to resemble ice and snow. Lala wondered if they were real. She peered closer. Finally, a penguin dove into the water, its awkward wings becoming graceful fins. Lala wanted to be graceful too. She gave herself a twirl, watching her skirt fly up, and skimmed her palms against the soft, ruffled denim.
She looked at the penguins again. One of them was stuffed. How lonely it must be, Lala thought. It was a very mild winter. Lala fidgeted in her wool tights.
She moved on, twirling her hair, and found the polar bears, great big lumps of whitish gray fur. They seemed to sleep, paws shielding their little black eyes from the harsh Coney Island light, the wrong type of salt wafting in from the Atlantic. Lala found them sadder than the penguins. One bear rolled on his back, paw out like an open palm. Then it rolled again, dragged itself up and dove into the water, its tired face becoming serene as a manatee.
Lala had enough. Where was her class? She was ready for lunch. The errant parent-volunteer, Chichi, had promised cupcakes. Lala had spied multicolored sprinkles. She considered consulting a security guard. But there they were, lining up at the gate to leave. She joined the end of the line. Mrs. Burger tapped her head, the last in the count. They filed onto the yellow bus with the squeaky green seats.
The din of Mrs. Burger’s second grade class trickled away, but was easily replaced by new din. Lala looked at the information on the electric eel’s plaque. She read the words quickly, her eyeballs jumping from line to line, then looked back at the undulating animals.
“Did you just read that whole thing?” a strange woman asked, astonished. Lala didn’t want to hurt the lady’s feelings.
“No,” she said. This seemed to satisfy the adult. Lala looked around to find her classmates gone, the parent-volunteer having ushered them away—but when? How long had she been staring at the eels?
Lala walked toward the exit of the Eel House, picking her nose. She wiped her finger on the yarn around her neck, attached to a construction paper ID card. “LALA” it said in red glitter on glue globs. Her school, grade, and teacher neatly printed underneath in Mrs. Burger’s cautious hand.
Lala wandered from the dark building into the gray light outside. She squinted, and found the penguin habitat. The penguins seemed stuffed, standing so still on their plastic rocks, painted white to resemble ice and snow. Lala wondered if they were real. She peered closer. Finally, a penguin dove into the water, its awkward wings becoming graceful fins. Lala wanted to be graceful too. She gave herself a twirl, watching her skirt fly up, and skimmed her palms against the soft, ruffled denim.
She looked at the penguins again. One of them was stuffed. How lonely it must be, Lala thought. It was a very mild winter. Lala fidgeted in her wool tights.
She moved on, twirling her hair, and found the polar bears, great big lumps of whitish gray fur. They seemed to sleep, paws shielding their little black eyes from the harsh Coney Island light, the wrong type of salt wafting in from the Atlantic. Lala found them sadder than the penguins. One bear rolled on his back, paw out like an open palm. Then it rolled again, dragged itself up and dove into the water, its tired face becoming serene as a manatee.
Lala had enough. Where was her class? She was ready for lunch. The errant parent-volunteer, Chichi, had promised cupcakes. Lala had spied multicolored sprinkles. She considered consulting a security guard. But there they were, lining up at the gate to leave. She joined the end of the line. Mrs. Burger tapped her head, the last in the count. They filed onto the yellow bus with the squeaky green seats.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Art & Technology
My brother Victor will be in Marseilles this week, showing his xBlocks at the Arborescence Festival. Their theme this year is "light," running the gamut from contemporary tributes to Cezanne to video games, with a particular focus on interactivity. If you happen to be in Marseilles, say hello. It looks like it'll be a good time.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Interactional Sociolinguistics
I'm taking a course in Interactional Sociolinguistics (IS). It looks at how culture and society is replicated and created in social interaction, a microanalysis that has larger implications. One big area of research that I'm particularly interested in is how IS can elucidate intercultural/interethnic misunderstandings. A lot of work has been done on "gatekeeping." A study that's been mentioned in a lot of the introductory readings relates the story of a South Asian man interviewing for a job in London who missed multiple (almost imperceptible) cues to promote himself; likewise, the interviewers did not take into account/did not know/did not realize that promoting oneself is not an acceptable practice in his culture. Another area of research that looks interesting is cross-gender (mis)communication, which works on the assumption that genders are almost separate cultures.
We got a taste of the microanalysis in class this week, looking over transcripts of conversations and trying to find and interpret the contexualization cues. Repetition turned out to be an important feature for creating solidarity in a conversation (though that doesn't go across the board-- every situation is different). What I liked about the exercise was how similar it felt to literary analysis, taking apart the smallest features and finding meaning in them.
We got a taste of the microanalysis in class this week, looking over transcripts of conversations and trying to find and interpret the contexualization cues. Repetition turned out to be an important feature for creating solidarity in a conversation (though that doesn't go across the board-- every situation is different). What I liked about the exercise was how similar it felt to literary analysis, taking apart the smallest features and finding meaning in them.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Stories and Such
There are more stories up at 55 Words. The Readers Choice Awards is also on. This means you should go read the nominated stories and send in your votes. You have until October 1st but don't procrastinate! Go now!
In other news, my family finally published my grandfather's memoir, Bittersweet Memories. It's been an interesting process that stretched a bit over three years. I've read various chunks of drafts but I'm looking forward to reading it in book form, cover-to-cover. From the back flap:
"Born into the quiet and remote steitl of Falticeni; embroiled in the fight against fascist dictatorship; entangled in the farce of the Communist regim; escape into the free world.
This is the life of one Jewish man, representative for so many of his generation."
In other news, my family finally published my grandfather's memoir, Bittersweet Memories. It's been an interesting process that stretched a bit over three years. I've read various chunks of drafts but I'm looking forward to reading it in book form, cover-to-cover. From the back flap:
"Born into the quiet and remote steitl of Falticeni; embroiled in the fight against fascist dictatorship; entangled in the farce of the Communist regim; escape into the free world.
This is the life of one Jewish man, representative for so many of his generation."
Monday, September 18, 2006
Brooklyn Book Fest
Saturday I went to the Brooklyn Book Festival. I had a lovely time wandering the stalls with M; we caught the last half of Jennifer Egan, Pete Hamill, and Colson Whitehead's reading. All the readings in the Borough Hall Courtroom (a lovely place) were a madhouse, with lines to get in winding down the stairs and out the Borough Hall door. They also had audience members sit up in the judges' seats, which made watching the reading extra interesting, to see people's changing expressions of amusement, sleepiness, and sleepy amusement. During the Q&A someone asked all 3 writers if they ever get depressed reading writers they admire. Whitehead said he tends to read non-fiction when he works, and Egan said if she reads something that depresses her because it is so good she doesn't sit down to write right away. I found Hamill's response most reasonable and encouraging. That you'll never be Gordimer (the questioner said Gordimer is her favorite) and Gordimer will never be you. You bring your own unique experiences to your writing (and this includes everything you read). He added that he tends to read work in translation in order to get the substance of the work without letting the music influence his writing (like reading Tom Wolfe and putting 20 exclamation marks in a paragraph).
We also saw the next reading: Ben Greenman, Jonathan Ames, and Gary Shteyngart. That was a very fun group. Shteyngart gave an especially spirited reading from the start of his book (beginning with masturbation and ending with circumcision and, of course, infection), so I finally picked up a copy of Absurdistan and hope to read it soon, though now that school has resumed it may be slated for July 2007. Oy.
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We also saw the next reading: Ben Greenman, Jonathan Ames, and Gary Shteyngart. That was a very fun group. Shteyngart gave an especially spirited reading from the start of his book (beginning with masturbation and ending with circumcision and, of course, infection), so I finally picked up a copy of Absurdistan and hope to read it soon, though now that school has resumed it may be slated for July 2007. Oy.
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Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Conflux
Conflux, the annual NYC conference on psychogeography, will be in Brooklyn this weekend. My brother took me to my first (and only) Conflux in 2003, when it was on the Lower East Side. He participated in a chess game on the street (he was a chess piece, the player dictated where he go via cell phone, a man with a papier mache horse head plastic-axed him somewhere near West 4th St.). This year will include a Smelling Committee and The Former Resident Project (when you leave a place, what do you leave behind?) among many other things.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Code Switching
I'm excited. All right, I know I said that in the last post. But now, in addition to autumn, I'm excited about a symposium I've registered for, on African & Diasporic Languages. One of the recommended readings is on Code Switching, which is using different languages within a conversation. This immediately brought to mind a trip I took to Germany with my grandmother in 2003; we visited her cousin and uncle, and it was a quadri-lingual affair. My grandmother spoke Romanian with her cousin and uncle, her cousin spoke German with her family, her family spoke English with me, and everyone who knew Hungarian reserved that for curses and other colorful language. So I suppose the code switching there was between Romanian and Hungarian. I can sort of guess at the significance of it, in my very vague, impressionistic understanding of the two cultures and languages and their histories. I've been told Hungarian just has better swear words. I wish I knew more of the language than I do; all I can say is the arcane greeting, "I kiss your hand" and "igen" (yes).
In any case, I'm looking forward to the symposium.
In any case, I'm looking forward to the symposium.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Enter Autumn
I'm excited for fall. Aside from the end of wretched, bludgeoning-sun summer, aside from the fresh breezes, crisp air and crunchy leaves and all that good stuff, I'm going to two fun shows at St. Ann's Warehouse in Dumbo.
First, for Halloween I'm seeing the Tiger Lillies, who I first saw in Shockheaded Peter last year (the song "Snip Snip" is still in my head).
Then I'm going on a double date with M and my parents to see the world premier of Lou Reed's Berlin, in December. It's going to be depressing. Hooray!
Even sooner than that, I'm going to the Brooklyn Book Festival (yow!) and my friend Andre's play. Fun will be had.
First, for Halloween I'm seeing the Tiger Lillies, who I first saw in Shockheaded Peter last year (the song "Snip Snip" is still in my head).
Then I'm going on a double date with M and my parents to see the world premier of Lou Reed's Berlin, in December. It's going to be depressing. Hooray!
Even sooner than that, I'm going to the Brooklyn Book Festival (yow!) and my friend Andre's play. Fun will be had.
Readers' Choice
More stories are up on 55 Words. Stay tuned for a readers' choice awards: read the best stories of the summer (nominees announced later this month) and choose your favorites. What fun!
Death of a Dancer
(A long-ish, journal-y post. A quasi-personal essay. And a plea to myself.)
On my super-basic website, in the about me section, I wrote that I'm a writer, dancer, and teacher. I should probably change that seeing as I haven't danced in almost a year.
I've danced on and off most of my life, most intensively in the last ten years. In high school, I replaced theater with dance as an outlet for the unverbalizable (is that a word?), choreographing wordless stories and sublimating excess energy. I took a brief hiatus in college, first to "adjust" (read: be lazy), then because I was rejected from Mosaica, the school dance group (needed to mend the ego with nutella sandwiches), and finally because of major surgery (a potentially book-long story I won't explain here). While still in physical therapy I took exactly one horrible ballet class, and later attempted to join some rogue "dance jam" group (compiled of Mosaica's rejects), a bunch of university students that didn't wash their hair and rolled around on the floor of some loft housing 12 or 20 people and their 50 cats. Didn't jive with me; I didn't last long.
Sometime in my third year of college I finally found a niche, though, a modern dance class that didn't bore me, didn't feel awkward, and was just the right amount of pain. A good pain. A healthy pain. When I fell into depression (a string of bad relationships + grandfather dying), I doubled up on classes ("I'm so glad," said my teacher, taking my check, "winter's a wonderful time to work, don't you think?") and threw myself into the thing, plunging to the wood floor and relishing in the buckets of sweat released, the bruises gained. My teacher told me I was making remarkable progress, which always feels nice.
Graduation, France, and back to NYC. I took Graham classes. In general I don't like Graham, I feel as if my bones are exposed and I think the discomfort is inherent and intentional and disquieting, but not in a good way. It's melodramatic and, with the wrong teacher, down-right irritating. Luckily there's one teacher in NYC that teaches Graham while doing Marlon Brando and John Wayne impressions and I took his classes semi-regularly, and laughed at his assurances that "if it feels wrong and painful you're probably doing it right." It was almost as good as the class in Montreal. I felt good about myself, I went back to my old studio from highschool and choreographed another piece for their anniversary weekend, had a wonderful (albeit self-conscious) time performing that and being in a larger piece by the director of the company, with out-and-out professionals. But after that performance last October I haven't been back to a dance class.
So what happened? School happened. No dance classes nearby, nothing apparently convenient on the way, so I learned how to swim instead at the TC pool (useful, sure, but not the same as a satisfying dance class). Am I being lazy? Yes, definitely. I'm worried about taking down the label "dancer"-- it might be the last nail in the coffin, though it feels like such a lie to keep it up there. And though dance has been this peripheral thing, not nearly as constant as writing, which as been front-and-center for a while, but this thing at the sidelines, it is frantically waving and quietly shouting (kind of like those nighmares where you scream, but no sound comes out), asking me not to just drop this part of myself. Well, we'll see. If there's a self-help group for lapsed dancers, I want in.
On my super-basic website, in the about me section, I wrote that I'm a writer, dancer, and teacher. I should probably change that seeing as I haven't danced in almost a year.
I've danced on and off most of my life, most intensively in the last ten years. In high school, I replaced theater with dance as an outlet for the unverbalizable (is that a word?), choreographing wordless stories and sublimating excess energy. I took a brief hiatus in college, first to "adjust" (read: be lazy), then because I was rejected from Mosaica, the school dance group (needed to mend the ego with nutella sandwiches), and finally because of major surgery (a potentially book-long story I won't explain here). While still in physical therapy I took exactly one horrible ballet class, and later attempted to join some rogue "dance jam" group (compiled of Mosaica's rejects), a bunch of university students that didn't wash their hair and rolled around on the floor of some loft housing 12 or 20 people and their 50 cats. Didn't jive with me; I didn't last long.
Sometime in my third year of college I finally found a niche, though, a modern dance class that didn't bore me, didn't feel awkward, and was just the right amount of pain. A good pain. A healthy pain. When I fell into depression (a string of bad relationships + grandfather dying), I doubled up on classes ("I'm so glad," said my teacher, taking my check, "winter's a wonderful time to work, don't you think?") and threw myself into the thing, plunging to the wood floor and relishing in the buckets of sweat released, the bruises gained. My teacher told me I was making remarkable progress, which always feels nice.
Graduation, France, and back to NYC. I took Graham classes. In general I don't like Graham, I feel as if my bones are exposed and I think the discomfort is inherent and intentional and disquieting, but not in a good way. It's melodramatic and, with the wrong teacher, down-right irritating. Luckily there's one teacher in NYC that teaches Graham while doing Marlon Brando and John Wayne impressions and I took his classes semi-regularly, and laughed at his assurances that "if it feels wrong and painful you're probably doing it right." It was almost as good as the class in Montreal. I felt good about myself, I went back to my old studio from highschool and choreographed another piece for their anniversary weekend, had a wonderful (albeit self-conscious) time performing that and being in a larger piece by the director of the company, with out-and-out professionals. But after that performance last October I haven't been back to a dance class.
So what happened? School happened. No dance classes nearby, nothing apparently convenient on the way, so I learned how to swim instead at the TC pool (useful, sure, but not the same as a satisfying dance class). Am I being lazy? Yes, definitely. I'm worried about taking down the label "dancer"-- it might be the last nail in the coffin, though it feels like such a lie to keep it up there. And though dance has been this peripheral thing, not nearly as constant as writing, which as been front-and-center for a while, but this thing at the sidelines, it is frantically waving and quietly shouting (kind of like those nighmares where you scream, but no sound comes out), asking me not to just drop this part of myself. Well, we'll see. If there's a self-help group for lapsed dancers, I want in.
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