Categories
dance poetic

Microfiction #1: Dance / Dancing

Only three stories this week. I hope more people will get into it as we progress, but I’m not going to twist any arms. If people want to write stories, that’s excellent and I’ll enjoy reading them. And if it comes down to just me, putting up one story every week, that will be okay too.

The topic for next week is: Cooking / Food.

As you can tell from this week’s stories, adherence to the topic is lenient, though I think it more fun to challenge yourself and try to write about the subject. Length restriction, it turns out, is fairly optional too.

Without further ado, stories!

————————

Two Sisters
-Emily Jindra

“I quit smoking,” she told me in passing, and I tried to bury some of my excitement. The fact that she said it nonchalantly meant that she was readying her mind for a relapse and didn’t want to get too excited, lest she fell off the wagon. I was happy, though, and have never been very skilled at hiding my emotions.

“That’s great,” was my reply, probably delivered too quickly and genuinely to mask my eagerness for her to be successful. “When did you decide to do that?”

“Well, I’ve been wanting to for awhile.” She sighed. Paused. Looked at the ground, probably hoping that the words to express what she was thinking would somehow materialize on the earth beneath her. My family has never been very skilled in the art of communication. Dialogue with each other is the dance we all fumble through awkwardly, like pubescent teenagers at their first mixer. She looked at me and I met her gaze.

“Do you ever think about death?”

I scanned my brain for a frame of reference, a precedent by which to make my response, some clue that would explain how and from where this question had come, and where she was taking me with it. My older sister and I don’t often get beyond the weather when it comes to conversation. The brain scan was inconclusive, and in a moment of resolve I decided to stop being so reserved around my own sibling.

“Yes,” I offered. “Sometimes I think that death is the only worthwhile thing there is to think about.”

She paused for another moment, trained a sharp gaze on some far-away object, and began to speak. “I was covering part of someone’s midnight shift last night. It wasn’t a full double because I only had to cover until 3 am, but I was pretty tired when I was driving home.” She stopped and once again searched the ground for the words to accurately build her recollection. “I try to take the back roads when I’m coming home that late, to avoid the drunks. I was on Oberlin Road, about to turn onto Russia when I saw it. I couldn’t make out what it was from the intersection, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and that damn cop instinct we all got from Dad kicked in. I turned left instead of right, my impulses taking the reigns from my logic. First it was just a cracked side view mirror glistening like a beacon in the other lane. Then there was glass, pieces of chrome, and the crimson. God damn, to think about that awful color painting a picture all over the road…”

She shifted her gaze and looked me directly in the eye. “I hope that you never see anything like that. It isn’t at all like what you think it would be. The smell was,” but she stopped to clear her throat, and the far away object called her gaze back. Another moment and her face was emotionless again, but there was a new franticness in her eyes, something akin to desperation, the urgency of sustained hunger.

“Libby…”

“It was an accident scene, and I was the first one there. Discovered the body I guess you would say. He must have been going over 100 to smash the bike up that badly. The trail of scattered motorcycle parts stopped at the telephone pole that served as the object to prove Newton’s first law of motion. The bike was wrapped like a pretzel around the base of the pole, I had to blink several times to convince myself that this was tangible reality I was looking at, and not something from a dream. The high tension wire must have then grabbed hold of the bikeless driver, because it stood sentinel over the bifurcated corpse. It was a cold night, and the wounds were… they were steaming.”

She looked down again, but this time with closed eyes. “Everyone says that life is so short, but it’s not.” A pause. She opened her eyes and that wolf-like desperation was even stronger than before. “We spend eons squandering it away, placating ourselves with the vacuousness of daytime T.V., tax deferred annuity payments, trips to the mall and low interest rates. We hide our true feelings, argue about meaningless bullshit, wait like idiots for greatness to happen to us, wait for meaning to one day magically appear. We spend our entire long ass lives waiting, and then in an instant the wait is over and we’re lying in two pieces on the side of some stretch of abandoned road. I’m going to live, Emily, every second that I draw breath into this body.” She looked at me. “Waiting is a game for a fool.”

She held the gaze a few moments longer, and then returned to her hawk-like surveillance of the distant horizon. I didn’t turn my eyes away from her, for fear that this fragile and tender moment between us would crack like an eggshell if I dared even breathe. She stirred suddenly, got up, and walked back toward the house. My eyes were transfixed and followed her up the familiar steps, and I noticed for the first time how strong my older sister is. She has yet to light another cigarette.

————————

The Dance
-Don Ferrari

“You’re a very special person.”

“Take’s one to know one.”

There was a pause as their eyes held, – similar to the two or three times before in the last hour – only this time it wasn’t from across the room – wondering if they were together or if you were reading it right – this time you were close, as it felt it should be.

“You make me want to touch you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

The eyes remained one, both open and vulnerable. A hand moved up of its own accord and laid itself gently on a cheek, remaining motionless while 2 sets of I’s sang songs that children sing.

“Phew.”

“Bawaack – I got the little ones,” a voice called forth and they both suddenly regained note of where they were. The tavern was crowded this Sunday night, yet no gaze was upon this meeting and faces once more turned to find hand still upon cheek, – then hand held cheek moved down and met a hand in hand and the tavern had two less people.

A silent journey thru the night – pine tree crest met starlit sky and air of breath for both to see. Soon they were making fire in the cabin on the rim of the mountain, the wood smoke sweetening the fragrance of this life.

A hand held cheek once more reached out and gently took a coat from form – Fingers weaving – dancing thru a land of button – Thru this hole to the other side, and you – and you, and then a turn.
Plop on the floor and flesh met touch and eye.
This hand of mine, on myself it seems
Then both, a dance of flickering flames,
Two foreheads touched
And eyes
And nose
And tongue traced patterns new unfolding,
Then hands moved down and pulled the final bit of name to none,
And both wide-eyed souls met dancing.

————————

Dimmer Switch
-Ahniwa Ferrari

Cal leaned against the wall and made an effort not to squint as light danced across the room and fake smoke drifted past his eyes. He’d heard that the parties senior year were bigger and better, but he’d never imagined they included light shows and smoke machines. Still, he knew that to the people who threw these parties image was everything, and the expense was the equivalent of pennies. In any case, he hadn’t come to see fancy special effects. He had a purpose.

Liza was the kind of girl every boy in school had dreams about. She was head cheerleader and valedictorian, and had already spent a year studying in France. She’d come back with a certain savoir faire that made her seem mysterious and unattainable, and an accent that over time had faded until you could only ever hear it when she got very emotional. It was fate’s cruel joke that her locker was right next to Cal’s, but he doubted that she had ever really noticed him.

If you asked someone at school what they thought of Cal, most people would sum his character up in a single, concise word: “Who?” . He wore clothes, ate food, walked about and talked, laughed, smiled and joked with his friends; all in such a way that no-one but his friends were ever inclined to pay him any notice. How he’d ever gotten friends in this state is a mystery, though could most likely be attributed to the fact that they’d been his friends since the third grade, before he’d realized that he was destined to a life of inexorable obscurity. He went about his business like a shadow, was never called on in class, got straight ‘B’s, and avoided school activities or doing anything in which he might stand out like the plague. Even his senior picture in the yearbook had turned out fuzzy, as if he were blurred around the edges; a ghost.

Tonight was different. The dimmer switch of Cal’s personality, halfway down his entire life, was now in the full “On” position. Dressed in a suit, he had a distinct outline, a physical presence that dominated a particular space. His hair, usually a bland brown and neatly parted, seemed to change in the light, one moment wild and the next, keenly sophisticated. His eyes, usually brown, were now hazel and chestnut and cedar, mahogany and driftwood, and they sparkled as they set upon Liza Anne Hartley and never strayed.

Liza had noticed him, too. Noticed, but not recognized, despite having the same lockers for the past four years. She laughed as a friend told a joke, excused herself, and let her feet follow Cal’s gaze across the floor. As she reached him, the music changed from a loud beat to something slow and intimate. She wasn’t used to being shy, but her breath caught in her throat and she was held transfixed by Cal’s presence. It was years of natural social instinct that allowed her to ask, “Would you like to dance?”

Cal smiled, his teeth flashed pearls. His brown eyes engulfed hers, blue, and the music flooded out the world.

As he left the party, all he could think was that if he hurried, then he and his friends could have a good long party themselves before the night was over. He ripped off his tie, threw it out into the night breeze, and grinned as he remembered his response:

“Sorry, I don’t dance with cheerleaders.”

Categories
dance love poetic

Yours ’til the wheels fall off

Life’s been flowing really smoothly lately,
such that the year is passing quickly;
and somewhat lacking in moments of stunning catharsis.

Yesterday was summer. We danced out at the Evergreen campus
in the main square while students sat outside on the grass
and forgot their studies in the sunshine, eating healthy
lunches and watching the grass think it’s spring.
Unseasonably warm.

Talking with Emily about love, and the process of saying
“I love you” for the first time to someone. We were together
for three and a half years, but almost didn’t last out
two months because she told me she loved me and I just smiled.

The summer just before Emily and I met was an odd one.
Theo and I had arrived home from France in June,
and we spent the entire summer hanging out at a dive,
writing poetry and philosophy and talking about relationships.
I also assisted with a french class on campus,
where I met a young woman named Whitney.

Perhaps it was post-France fervor,
or a misplaced, overzealous confidence
now that I was a world traveler;
I walked the neighborhoods ’til four in the morning,
I left notes and flowers, wrote poems,
stared at the stars and sighed melodramatically.
I belonged in 19th century Paris that Summer,
burning at both ends, a bottle of absinthe in one hand,
pen and paper in the other.

Whitney gave me the runaround for awhile,
I came to terms with a lot of things and mellowed out.
It ended abruptly, somehow with no loose ends
though we never talked to resolve anything.

The summer trailed into Fall, and the Russia program.
I knew Emily was going to be in the program,
because I’d talked to her sister, Anne, over the summer,
and she had mentioned it. Anne has mentioned it to Emily
as well, and told her to look for me.

From such simple chains of events are life-altering
relationships formed.

My summer rambling and roamings had left many ideas
lingering in my head. Two of which:
People say “I love you” too much, and why?
Would it be possible to emote love obviously and often
enough that ever saying the words would be redundant?
And more sensibly, to never say those words without
first being absolutely sure that they were true,
and that I could live up to the promise that they made.

A relationship isn’t a sterile lab, where one can
test the ideas one’s posited on paper alone in
the bowling alley restaurant while horse-racing
played on a 20″ television and people bet in the bar.

Even so, I think the ideas are sound.
The first, perhaps only if you’ve discussed it,
and you’re on the same page.
I’ve come to think there’s no harm in saying the words,
a thousand times an hour each day, if you mean them.

I stand by the second more strongly.
You can’t tell someone you love them
just because they want you to.
I’d like to think it was noble of me,
but who’s to say it wasn’t just needless torture?
I delayed a month before I told Emily I loved her,
and I was sure of it when I said it,
but we almost didn’t make it through the month.

We give these words such power over our happiness.
Inversely, they have such a bearing on our sadness.

It’s a good thing we have chocolate.

Categories
dance music

You’re showing your age…

Swing dancers are a perverse sort. Preparing a valentine’s routine to “Tainted Love” brings us to an apogee of perversity. Conversations revolved around: pain involved with female’s donating eggs, versus people donating plasma, versus guys donating sperm, including various lewd comments about men’s donations, and the process involved; the proper way to “sexy dance”, which eventually got narrowed down to simply “drop it” (like it’s hot), except on the guys leg; the monetary possibilities involved with releasing nude swing dancing videos (here I was shocked to hear that someone had actually witnessed two people swing dancing in the buff; they mentioned that it looked “awkward”); and various references to shaking ass, bouncing bits, pimp-walks, et al. We finished the night by listened to Jack Black croon “Fuck Her Gently”, then went off for a couple drinks at a gay club. Fun night.

The one seemingly non-perverse topic we covered was theme songs from 90s’ television shows, most notably “The Fresh Prince of Belair” and “Saved by the Bell“. I guess it’s proof you’re a twenty-something if you know all the words to the FPoB themesong (though looking at the lyrics, I didn’t know the middle bit, which I guess was only in the first three episodes of the first season). But all the rest of the words, I know … I know them well. Keri mentioned to me that one of her friends has the SBtB themesong as her ring-tone, thus “showing her age”. Is it so bad to be twenty-something?

Categories
cinema dance personal

News to the insta-muse

I’ve rearranged and added some links, most notably four new pulldown menus of news links. This in an effort to stay more informed about the world around me. Ironically, I’ve spent hours on my blog today, and now am left with only a few minutes to post something. Type quickly!

We were to have a swing practice last night to work on our “Tainted Love” routine, but there was a “goings-on” going on where we were to do it, so we moseyed over to Adrian’s house. He’s got space enough to dance, once we moved some furniture, and we did indeed get some practice done, but not much. Mostly we drank beers, ate chips and listened to dance music (not swing). It was fun, in an odd sort of way. Adrian suggested the Brotherhood for some more drinking, as we were getting ready to leave, but I played the “have to work early” card. I was just tired, and drinking all night sounded like the least enjoyable idea ever conceived by man or ape. Arriving home, we started to watch the new release of The 5th Element. I was crashing, though, and fell asleep within the first half-hour. Theo and Kandace snuck upstairs sometime whilst I was snoozing, and when I woke up about half an hour later, it was just Tim and I. I figured he’d be hardcore and stay up and finish it, but he turned it off when I announced my resignation. Oh well, I needed the rest after staying up until five in the morning playing poker the previous night. I won $3 though!

My weekend plans are modest: a haircut, perhaps; a movie or two; add to my music collection; have an interesting conversation. I’d throw in find true love and start a novel, but for the first I’ve come to accept that you almost never find love when you’re looking for it, and for the second I as yet feel I have more important things to do before I can write down a story worth reading. As dry as my blog’s been lately, I doubt a novel written over the weekend would sell for a nickel, even as a pillow. Maybe I need someone to insta-muse me. Yeah … that’d be nice.

Categories
dance montreal personal school

Montreal swing

I continued to research graduate schools today for a glorious future of library employment. McGill in Montreal is still at the top of my list, followed in no particular order by: U. of Wisconsin, Madison; Simmons, in Boston; Southern Connecticut State University, in New Haven; U. of Washington, in Seattle; and U. of B.C., Vancouver. Aside from quality of the schools, and really they all seem pretty decent (if they suck they don’t last long), I’ve been focusing on location, and where I want to be. One of the main qualifiers is, you might have guessed, the hepness of the swing-dance scene. And so, in searching, I came across this, which seems very hep indeed. Moving to Montreal scares the shit out of me, but without even ever having been there, I’ve already started to really like the city. No matter what works out in the Fall, I’ve a feeling I’ll end up in Montreal regardless, one way or another.

Last night, abandoned by my usual swing cohorts, I drove up to Tacoma by myself, and had nothing less than a rockin’ good time. Taking smoke breaks alone wasn’t half as much fun, but I managed anyway. I worked on my blues styling a tiny bit (though I still feel woefully inadequate during slower songs), danced with three great dancers I’d never danced with before, chatted with some nice people and got an e-mail address (one step down from a phone #, sure, but hey) to see if some girls want to hook up at McCabe’s next Tuesday for some western swing dancing. As I was leaving, I asked Dave about blues dancing classes, of which I guess there is one (only one *sigh*) up at the Dance Underground next Friday. We’re also working on a new performance routine for V-day to “Tainted Love”, which should be smashing, simply smashing. I suspect we’ll be supposing to practice the performance next Friday, but I may sneak away anyway. I wanna learn me some blues.

On a juicier note, I’ve been getting some major vibe from a very dangerous girl on Tuesday nights. She portrays herself as a bit of a player, and though I’ve no doubt that she’s crafty, I still think she talks a bit bigger than she acts. Even so, she’d probably chew me up and spit me out, which remains tempting all the same. Tempting, but not likely. I wouldn’t mind but for a strange sense of morality that keeps getting in my way. Ah well, probably for the best.

Categories
dance personal poetic

Keeping up with the Joneses

No post for days, and now a deluge, as if to lull you into a false sense of security, and then attack you without mercy until to succumb to my twisted demands. Yeah, so when I think of some twisted demands, I’ll let you know. Got the idea here, and it seemed like a fun meme to do. Take the first sentence from the first entry of each month, and that’s your year in review. I may do more than first sentence though, because halfway through this, I realize most of my first sentences are … rather boring. I like to use short sentences.

January: Another busy and weary Sunday.
Sisyphus didn’t think on these things.

February: In Soviet Russia, the dishes do you.

March: Hey look, it’s March!
On a brief side note, I think our kitty may be bulemic.

April: [I was a lazy sot.]

May: [A really lazy sot.]

June: Don’t run away so quickly.
Still. The house air grass wind walls mind fingers time seems still now. Still. Still. Still. Still. Measure out my heartbeat with the word … it is too quick. Measure out my teardrops with the word. They are too plentiful. Drip – Thump – Still – Drop – Tha-thump – Still ——– and so on.

July: I’ve little thought of what I might do once I reach Olympia.
I’d like to think my actions make nice, concentric circles somehow emanate from me, pulsating lily pads and reflecting lines of sunlight. More likely my actions are like the kid who cannonballs at the pool, soaking people who don’t want to get soaked and getting water up my nose in the process.

August: Well-situated. Killer house, well-located.
L’azur, a hint of purple.
Weaver of blue immobilities.
I’ve rowed ‘neath the eyes of floating jails;
I’ve arrived home at last.

September: If that’s all there is, my friend,
then let’s keep dancing….
Swing word-schemes like a jitterbug;
if that’s all there is, my friend,
then let’s cut a rug.

October: In the mornings, I invariably make coffee,
strong, strong coffee; and listen to Diana
Krall sing some great jazz in DTS.

November: Don’t fret the whimsicality of strangers;
songs hummed below the breath
are songs waiting to be sung.
It’s irresponsible to be scared to fall in love.

December: That is, perhaps, the weirdest expression
that I had never, until now, heard.
Life is good. Today the sun shone,
and I wore the sunglasses of contentment.
A bagel and coffee at Otto’s to start the day,
like we used to do in years past.

And that’s my blog-year in review.
And now my blog is a full year old.
Happy Birthday, blog! *sniff*

Categories
dance music personal work

Dancin’ the Blues Away

Dancing alot alot alot, and having an absolute blast, I might add. Only nine days in, and I’m already optimistic that 2005 is going to be my favorite year yet. I’m sitting on a high that seems unquenchable and comes from no particular source other than my own contentment with myself and the world. And isn’t that what we all strive for? Of course, I can’t imagine that the year will have no low notes. Particularly, I’m still nervous about the graduate school thing, and where I will end up and how that will go; nervous but it’s not ruined my mood nor will it.

Aside from posting pictures, I haven’t really made any comment on what’s been going on around here since ringing in the New Year. So I’ll start at the beginning.

New Year’s Eve was a blast, but with some sour notes. Most notably (on the blast end, not the sour end), Theo and Kandace hooked up (you may have seen the picture), and they are, to be blunt, an inspiring pair. Seeing the two of them together is kind of like watching two stars click in a romantic film, the chemistry (even transferred through wires and lights) is undeniable, and from the moment they meet you think, “These people need to get married, right now, and live happily ever after. For real.” At first, I was a little jealous, but now I just enjoy hanging out with them, and it’s renewed my faith that there is someone out there with whom I will connect so … perfectly. In any case, I got no lovin’ on New Years (though I was secretly hoping for a New Year’s kiss, to be sure), but I refused to let that put a damper on the beginning of what I was resolved would be a great year. Tim and I walked home from the Eagle’s Bar around 1:30 in the morning. I drank more that night than I think I ever have before, and perhaps ever will again, though I felt okay for the most part, and woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Go me.

Tuesday and Wednesday nights I went dancing, as per usual. I’ve been working on my musicality a lot, trying to dance to the music, match the mood and tempo to my style, play around with pauses, and connect with my partner. I’ve also been managing to teach myself at least one new move every night I go dancing, from watching other people. Nothing fancy, and it’s kind of a frustratingly slow pace to improve at, but I’ll get there in the end. Dancing up in Tacoma on Wednesdays, they like to really slow down the pace a lot near the end of the night, and it’s really made me want to learn some blues dancing. I’d also like to work on some salsa, classic ballroom, tango, and even club-style dancing. Basically, I’ve been a dancing fool and I’m inspired to become ever more of one. In a way, it’s been odd, because I didn’t think I was all that excited about dancing. I think a lot of my new-found interest comes in part from being able to share it with a friend. Having Theo start dancing has made the experience feel more connected to the rest of my life, whereas before it was always something I did that was, for the most part, seperate from everything else in which I was involved. I’ve also been hanging out with the other swing dancers in Olympia quite a bit, and they’re a fun crowd. Aside from dancing, we tend to play a lot of cribbage, and Theo and I have started to get some of them into Pinochle; so in that sense too I feel that dance has become a solid part of my life and relationships, instead of just a strange hobby I have.

Tonight I’m meeting with Emily and Nick, who are running the Swing Club out at Evergreen, to talk about what we want to do this quarter. I helped start the original Evergreen Swing Club back in ’98, so I have some perspective on what works and what doesn’t, and what in particular Evergreen students are looking for in a club. Of course, it may have all changed since then, since that was the height of the swing craze. I think we should still be able to pull in a good crowd, though, even if we don’t get the peak 60-or-so people we got back in the day. Also, they may have me teach every other week, which would be a blast, because I miss teaching swing, and I’ve learned a lot since I was dancing back then. On top of all that, I’ve been vigorously adding to my music collection, including a lot of western swing and rockabilly (among other things) and hope to start DJing brief spots at the dance on Tuesday nights. If it goes well, and I’m into it, I might look into getting my own DJ set-up. I used to DJ a little bit with Lee back in the day, now and again, and always had a great time doing it. If nothing else, I just think it would be fun to mix up the music that people dance to every week.

I worked a lot this week, including three days that went from 9:00 to 6:30. I’d forgotten how exhausting it can be to work a full day, especially when most of it is spent moving around and on your feet. The job at Tumwater is decent, if uninteresting, though I wish so much I could just work full-time at St. Martin’s, which is to date my favorite job ever. But I’m bordering on whining, which isn’t my intention, so I’ll move on.

Last night was a guest-list only party at the Eagle’s Bar, featuring the fabulous DJ talent of a man named Rob. Rob lives in Paris, but he came over here to marry (as in preside over the ceremony) Christine and Damon. When he tried to go back home, he was told that he couldn’t because he didn’t have the proper papers (or something really asinine, along those lines). So he was stuck back in the ‘States, trying to make some money to get the documention and ticket he needed to get back to Paris. Last night’s party was partially a farewell party to Rob, and a collection for him to get back home. He’s flying back on the 20th. Bon Voyage, Rob! Anyway, he’s a kick-awesome DJ, with an awesome collection of swing, blues, jazz, techno, dance, disco, and everything else, including some really great music from France he’s picked up. I’d kill for the man’s music collection. The crowd was a lot smaller than it was on New Year’s, and mostly composed of the swing dance crowd. We had solid swing music from 8-10:30, then slowly moved over to disco, with some swing and salsa thrown in on occassion. Kandace drank a little too much, so I took them home around 12:30, and then drove myself back to the party. It wrapped up shortly after I got back, so a few of us went searching for other venues to dance in. Unfortunately, Olympia closes down pretty early (which has always been a beef of mine with this city), so after 1:00 we were pretty much shit out of luck unless we wanted to pay a cover to get into a club packed full of drunk and horny grinders swaying obnoxiously to too-loud techno and hip-hop. After walking around for a bit, we went back to Jan’s house, had some beers, and played cribbage until about 4:30 in the morning. This morning we woke up early (almost), around 10, and went down to get some good, greasy breakfast at The Place.

Categories
dance humor personal poetic

??? ????? ?????? ? ????? ??????

And today, I blog in Russian! Hahahaha, just kidding.
Not that I wouldn’t, if I could. Though I got plenty of flak
for blogging in French. Please note such hate-filled comments as:
“SQRAWK!” Very Crookshanxian, exhibiting a smoldering inner rage.

So, as usual, I’ve been going dancing a whole lot.
You’d think I might get better from dancing so much, but
I really feel like I’m at a tough plateau right now,
and I haven’t been learning a whole lot of new stuff.
Granted, I’m still having plenty of fun, but I’d really
like to become better at it, for how much time I put in.
Theo and Kandace and I went up to Tacoma last night,
which makes two weeks consecutive now. We’ll probably keep
going up as it’s a lot of fun, and nice to meet a few new people.
The dance space in Tacoma is small, but friendly, and it’s
in a church! Devil’s music no more, I say!
I’m even thinking about going up to Seattle for some dancing,
or lessons. Of course, traffic to Seattle is about a thousand
times worse than traffic to Tacoma, so that may not happen.

Everyone knows about the tsunami by now.
Heather’s blog talks about what it’s like to be there.
You can imagine; not fun. She’s got some interesting pictures.
Google’s set up a good page with links to aid sites,
if you want to help out and donate some moneys.
For what it’s worth, I wish everyone the best over there.
It’s going to be awhile before this is something anyone can
move on from; at least for the people involved. I can’t imagine.

Keri says that my blog needs more sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.
So, ummmmmm … here you go:

God bless you, thank you, rock ‘n’ roll,
you make my days complete;
from all the sex you’ve given me
to all the shrooms I eat.

And though I now look eighty-two,
though I’m only twenty-four;
still, bless you, thank you, rock ‘n’ roll,
I think I’ll have some more.

With my deepest apologies. Blame Keri.

Categories
dance personal

Ain’t got no Christmas blues

For no particular reason, the holidays always bring me down a little bit. So if I have been neglecting my blogger duties, it’s because I’d rather not piss and whine about a feeling I can’t pinpoint; other than that sometimes, despite being surrounded by the best of friends and family, the universe leaves me feeling very cold and alone. But, you know, I still don’t want to piss and whine, so I’m not going to get into it.

We had our dance performance for our swing routine on Tuesday night here in Olympia, and then we performed it again last night up in Tacoma. It went well both nights, though I had a different partner each night. Oddly, I think the Tacoma crowd recieved it better than Oly did. But then, it was a smaller group and seemed more close-knit in general. Also, they weren’t expecting anything, so perhaps we just garnered some extra “neat surprise” value. In any case, I’m equally glad and sad that it’s over. December has been the month from hell for my schedule, and I’ll be more than happy when that mellows out and I can live according to some sort of regular schedule (yeah right), but at the same time I think I’ll miss a little bit being this active and busy. But not too much.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up early, go to the UPS store to send a box to Ohio (don’t worry, it doesn’t tick), and then mosy on up to Port Townsend for a few days to spend time with family. It’ll be quiet, laid back, relaxed; I plan on drinking coffee, reading, going for walks and enjoying some blackberry pie, among other things.

To all who stop by here occassionally, often, rarely, or never: I wish you a very big gigantic joyously stupendously Merry Christmas (or other preferred holiday). Peace on earth and good will towards everything. Yeay.

Categories
dance poetic work

How to dance properly

Worth a giggle, at least.

Quote of the day from Contemporary Poetry Review:

“It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.” -Stéphane Mallarmé

And a bit more from Mallarmé:

“Oui, je sais qu’au lointain de cette nuit, la Terre
Jette d’un grand éclat l’insolite mystère
Sous les siècles hideux qui l’obscurcissent moins.”

Yes, I now know that far into the night the Earth
Is flinging a strange and mysterious shaft of light whose
Brilliance will only be increased as the grim centuries pass by.

Rather uplifting coming from him, I think.

I’ve been working all week at St. Martin’s. Tomorrow and Saturday, all day at Tumwater. My first full days out there, since working there once, for 5 hours. I’m nervous, yes, but I’m trying to be laid back about it. It’s just a job, after all, and not a particularly difficult one. Even so, shelving books for 8 hours of the day sounds particularly brain-numbing. I wish I could just work the reference desk here full-time. *grumble grumble*

Swing dancers can get cantankerous, particularly when they’re talking about choreography, and everyone wants it done their way. They seem so fun and pleasant on the outside; who knew?

I need a day off … or a week. Either way.
*yawns sleepily and has a daydream about coffee*

I’d love some comments on yesterday’s story;
good, bad, long or short, any remarks are lovely.

Categories
dance poetic

Charlestown

The First Time
– Ahniwa Ferrari

I swung by your flat in Charlestown, shuffled about on your stoop before I tap-tap-tapped lightly on your door. My legs were jittery, my heart striking double-beat against my chest (snare on the even beats). The door, swinging open, revealed your face glowing in a soft electric light. We smiled in tandem, shyly hugged as you stepped aside to let me in. I led myself down the hall, turned right into your living room: soft colors and light plush with the stories you’ve spun, hanging in the air like whispers, just loud enough to get an idea, quiet enough to leave a mystery. You made a b-line to the kitchen, came back shortly with refreshments; cookies and milk as though we were in a black and white movie. I’d play Astaire to your Rogers.

We sat quietly for a moment, unsure of ourselves. I’d never done this before, either.

“So, is this your first time?” I dipped a bit of cookie into my milk, watched it absorb the white and cold and wet, drew it back before it dissolved and let it melt in my mouth.

Your hands clasped together, knuckles white, you watched my mundane cookie ritual. You stuttered a bit at first, “Ye… Yes, this is my first time. Is it your first- Oh, that’s a silly question, isn’t it? Of course this isn’t your first time.”

I finished my cookie and hopped out of my chair, trying to harness my nervous energy for what had to be done. “Actually, my first time teaching, one-on-one … yes.” I motioned for her to join me, standing in the middle of the room.

She stood up and took my hands as I offered them to her. Unsure where to look, her eyes wandered around until they decided that her feet would be the safest place. “Where do we start?” she asked, never looking up.

“Don’t look down. Your feet will just distract you.” She brought her head up, looked me in the eyes, smiled slightly. “We’ll start with the basic step; you on your right foot, me on the left, like this: step-step-rockstep. There you go, not bad. Just don’t look down.”

Categories
book dance love personal poetic

Local non-celebrity

I’ve had adventures too, rather beautiful adventures. –I came down the railroad cut at twilight. They had been gaining on me all day. My mouth tasted of sweat and black fear. It doesn’t do to let it go too long–You get mixed-up. You begin to think you know what is hunting you down. You begin to think that maybe the only thing which has the power to comfort you is to get caught, to lie helpless and meek before them. You begin to think that the only real escape is to give in, to offer them your life and your soul–because somewhere, in fire and glory, it was arranged that they should have them.
– Kenneth Patchen, from Sleepers Awake

Months ago, in the days of weekly poetry readings at Last Word Books with a vibrant crowd of local talent (I’ve talked it up plenty in past posts), I read a poem called Café Muse which particularly impressed a local poet named Amy. It’s an ode to the beauty and grace of the café barista, silly romantic and evidently (from the general reaction as I read it) pretty funny. Amy asked me for a copy of the poem, which I got to her some weeks later. I don’t see Amy often, but ran into her two days ago at the Swing Club meeting out at Evergreen. It was just her and Nick and Emily and Sam and I at the meeting, since most students are done out there or extremely busy with last-minute end of the quarter work. Sam, a fabulous musician, played music on the old piano in the room we use as a dance space. Mostly he played his songs (remeniscent of a male Fiona Apple, sort of), but he also played us a couple swing tunes, to which we gratefully danced.

I chatted with Amy a bit. She’d just arrived back from a trip to San Francisco. She took some great photos, which she showed me. We didn’t talk much, since the room greatly proliferated the echoes from the piano and we didn’t want to try and yell over it; but she told me she’d read Café Muse to a few people, in a few places, and everyone had liked it. She mentioned further that she had been invited to the Batdorf and Bronson (a local café) Christmas Party, and had been asked to read it there. I think this is all greatly amusing, as I’ve few aspirations to the greatness of my literary prowess, and no particular pride in the quality of this particular work, particularly. But hey, if people are enjoying it, I think that’s great. I can only imagine that she’s giving me credit (she was very considerate in asking me if it was okay that she was reading this poem to folks); perhaps one day I’ll meet someone for the first time, introduce myself, and they’ll say, “Ahniwa … Ahniwa. Hey, you’re the guy that wrote that Café Muse poem!” Heehee, as if. If anything, it makes me think I need to stop slacking on the creative writing. Which I do, I do.

My innocent companions, They imagine an earth, a sky; imagine that they are alive; and they die. – Kenneth Patchen

Some time ago, Jason swung through town toting a book of Patchen’s poetry. I skimmed through it, and since then the bastard’s been stuck in my subconscious. If you’re interested, you can read some of his work online: Let Us Have Madness & The Hangman’s Great Hands, The Orange Bears, and Excerpts from Sleepers Awake; and a further list here.

Florida is out for the holiday. Instead of sun and warmth I’ll marry myself to the rain and the constant thrum-thrum of noises muted in the dripping embrace of the evergreens’ branches. I’ll drive up the rainforest-lined peninsula, watch divers prepare their equipment along the side of the road, digging into the backs of their small pick-ups, and people spread out along the mud flats leading to the water, digging for clams and secret treasures forgotten but subconsciously in their childhood imaginings. I’ll sip a latté or mexican hot chocolate in the Silverwater while I watch raindrops splatter against the fountain across the street, and talk to people I knew when I was seventeen, when I worked for a year before college, trying to find something out about myself and the world. I’ll savor blackberry pie a la mode and remember days of that year I’d forgotten, and I’ll get sentimental but remain content. I’ll dig through the bookstore looking for treasures, wasting happy hours and walking away with either two full bags of books or none at all. I’ll try to skip rocks along the water, walking the beaches slick with mossy rocks and large logs that drifted in one day and have sat for years now, happy playthings of children and perches for lovers to sit and watch the waves. Perhaps I’ll see whales playing in the spray, and turning over rocks I’ll watch small crabs scuttle away to seclusion, annoyed with my human need to disturb things, and I’ll feel momentarily guilty.

Christmas morning will be quiet, but cheerful. Coffee and breakfast and a fire in the pellet stove; warm air blown out loudly by a fan that can be hard to talk over when you’re naturally soft-spoken. A small tree, not overdecorated, hugging the corner of the room, guarding presents neither numerous nor large, but picked out in a genuine spirit of caring.

I’m getting well ahead of myself.

Had coffee with Alexis last night after dropping Joseph off in the glen. She’d had a rough week, and then a rougher night, and needed some decent company. We smiled across the table at each other, drank our coffee and chatted. When we left, I took her back to her place and we watched about three minutes of cartoons before the TV died. I held her for awhile, trying to imbue her with all the positive energy I could muster so she could sleep without suffering through nightmares. I did my best to be supportive to her, and to be close, without offering more than I could give. As I left her house, tired and stumbling into the cold and wet, some of her warmth lingered, pressed against me like a blanket. I have missed her company, but I don’t want to hold open a wound that will close more easily in my absence. December will be busy, but perhaps afterwards it will be easier for us to hang out more often.

Categories
dance personal poetic

Harmless sentimental

It’s amazing how a kind word can make you cry
where barbs of scorn and anger fail;
and here I was at work with nowhere to hide,
doing my best not to well-up and blubber.
But thank you for that; it makes me happier than I can say.

I’m looking into a radical template change,
so things may be a little unstable here for awhile.
If so, now you know why.

This is the completed swing poem,
which I did not read at the poetry reading
because I’m not entirely happy with it;
but there you go. The “Kas” journal is now filled.
Now I just have to find Kas.

– Like a Jitterbug –

Swing word schemes like a jitterbug,
if that’s all there is my friend
then let’s cut a rug.
Legs loose like spaghetti,
feet like Andretti,
come feel the music
let’s rock the beat steady.
Let me cop a dance,
it’s my last chance
to get by with a smile.
A spin and a dip,
I’ve flipped my last chip
to a turning wheel;
whip around on a heel
and stop to feel! [pause]
Crazy like a dervish,
nervous, palms sweaty in a Charlston,
stop me if you’ve heard this.
Tight curves on a ballroom floor,
I’m floored, my eyes and limbs adore.
We tip-toe through a slow dance,
my last chance
to get by with a smile.
I flip my last chip,
dip;
smile.

Like I said, I don’t really like it.
But I’ve gone and subjected you to it anyway;
I’m atrociously evil. Rar.

Categories
cinema dance personal

Ain’t Misbehavin’

Okay, maybe misbehavin’ just a tiny bit,
in my own, silly and sentimental ways.
It was a long weekend, my friends;
a new pinacle of absurd decadence.

Friday night, Theo’s brother Colin was up
from California, and as he was heading out
Saturday morning, he wanted to make the most
of his visit and “party like a rock-star”(tm).
We hung out in our garage space for awhile,
playing darts and beer-pong
(the strangest & most pointless drinking game in all creation),
and then they all wanted to hit the bars.
I wasn’t going to go, really;
but then Colin forced me to (literally, physically!).
Anyway, we went to the Brotherhood, played some pool,
and then down to Jake’s to watch people dance.
(Jake’s is the gay club in town, where the Go Club used to be).

Theo stayed on with Rob ’til the wee hours;
I stumbled home alone at around 1:30 and slept
like an inebriated baby.

Saturday was our Cowboy Bebop marathon,
and a thing of beauty it was.
We started at about 1:00 in the pm,
and finished around 1:00 in the am.
We got through the whole thing,
including the movie which we watched in
sequence with the series (in between discs 5 and 6).
Not incredibly tired at the time,
I stayed up watching Smalleville all night,
through the next day, until Sunday at around 11 pm.
I watched the entire second season in a day,
which was absolutely ridiculous. I highly recommend it.
As my brain started to shut down, I started to confuse
Smalleville with Cowboy Bebop, to the point that the action
at times looked animated; and I thought people were flying
around in their space ships shooting at each other.
It was a little bizarre. Then I slept like a
giant-overloaded-brain baby.

Monday I woke up late and recuperated;
and thank God for a three-day weekend.

Tuesday was my first full day of work (9-5),
doing data entry at the Advancement Office.
The work is fine (read: mind-numbing but easy),
but would be a lot better if I understood the point.
Basically, we are taking the info from the old records,
which were in MS Access, and checking it against the new
records, which are in PowerCampus. Since most of the
info in the PowerCampus records is more current than the
MS Access info, in the case of a discrepency we usually
go with the PowerCampus info anyway, but flag the discrepency
for someone else to look at. Granted, we do change and fix
some data; but they’re paying out a whole lot of money
to get this done, which I don’t entirely understand.
Under no circumstances am I complaining;
it’s an easy paycheck.

Tuesday night I went swing-dancing at the Olympia Eagle’s Ballroom.
I saw fewer people I knew than I had hoped I might (2),
but I knew the DJ, and as soon as I walked in she came over
to say “hi” and then introduced me to all the best dancers
in the place. There was some amazing dancing there,
and rusty as I am, I felt self-conscious and inadequate.
However, I still had a ball (small pun).
There’s no better way to meet people than to dance with them,
and I danced my little feet off (quite a feat! haha).
I had forgotten how much I missed dancing,
and I’m tickled that there’s still a scene here in town.

Tonight is the Open Mike / Poetry Reading at Last Word Books.
I’m planning on reading The Embarrassing Episode of Little Miss Muffet,
by Guy Wetmore Carryl. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who’s ever
heard of the poem; but it’s a great poem to read aloud.
I’ve no idea what I might read of mine. Perhaps I’ll write
something new for the occassion. Maybe something dance-related;
last night was an inspiring muse.

Swing like a hu-man,
can-can, rat-ta-tam-tam,
douse my cakes in the frim-fram.
Feet flail like spaghetti,
fast like Andretti,
sweat like the serengeti
as I rock the beat steady.

Categories
dance personal poetic

Is that all there is?

If that’s all there is, my friend,
then let’s keep dancing….

Optimism and hope; my mind can’t complete the thought.
Is there such a thing as an optimism that is not naive?

Last night, Theo and I went down to Le Voyeur for
two-dollar beers and conversation. We talked about
existentialism (of course), Sisyphus, art, and relationships.
We talked about optimism too; that it is naive, but necessary.
For an existentialist, optimism is simply finding the way
to enjoy the experience; and a projection of the enjoyment
of future experiences (which is where it gets a bit absurd).
Really, I can only subscribe to optimism by analyzing
the flipside. Despair is cold, heartless, and dead.
Optimism may be silly, but at least it lives.

Anyway, I’ve worn myself out on the topic.
Not that I got anywhere with it.

If my sources are correct, tonight there will be
both swing-dancing and poetry-reading.
No one should have to suffer through such choices.
And they are, essentially, at the same time.
Still, they aren’t far apart, geographically,
so perhaps I’ll try and at least stop in at both.
Switch between cutting a rug and cutting a rhyme,
without batting an eyelash.

Swing word-schemes like a jitterbug;
if that’s all there is, my friend,
then let’s cut a rug.