thank you sun!

Well today is gorgeous.  I can feel Spring.  

Waking up and getting my lazy ass to the gym at 5:45 every morning just got exponentially easier (if the weather stays like this).  

This weather makes me want to sit outside and drink coffee.  It makes me want to skip down the street west side story-style.  It makes me want to play my music REALLY LOUD.  It makes me want to go in the park and pretend to read a book while actually people-watching and trying not to judge the other folks that are out enjoying this fine day.  Like the hipster bike messenger kids all lined up on the cement barriers in Rittenhouse...they always have their big shoulder bags.  I assume they are just big enough to hold a vegan sandwich, two 40 oz.'s, and a kidnapped toddler.  That is why they carry them around I truly believe.  But it is a beautiful day, and I should not judge them.  I should only feel slightly sorry for the kidnapped toddler who is crammed inside their bag and can't see the sunshine and is inhaling the moist sweaty and plasticy smelling air of the interior.  He/she couldn't scream if he/she wanted to because the chilled 40oz.'s are crammed on either side of the child's face so his/her jaw is frozen shut.  This ensures that the child won't be tempted to nibble on the vegan sandwich as well (ah...dual purpose...lovely).

     Where are these children's parents?  Why aren't they storming the Oprah show...tissues in hands and tears on cheeks...why?  Why aren't they calling the cops and screaming into the receiver..."But its URGENT!!!!!! My Little Johnny/Sally went missing on his/her way to school this morning.  He/she is NOWHERE TO BE FOUND!  HE/SHE NEVER CAME HOME!  PLEASE. OH GOD PLEASE HELP!"  

No.

The moms are at their daily yoga.  They focus on their inhales that tickle the small hair follicles in their nasal passages.  They say things like "ummmmm" and "shivasanasana".  They twist themselves in positions named after pooping and screwing animals.  They work hard to twist into these positions.  They notice stretch marks on their stomachs when their lycra-cotton blend yoga tops ride up as they twist into "squatting tarantula".  Towards the end of their class they do poses called "Child's Pose" and "Happy Baby".  They think to themselves..."inhale ah how profound to be like a posing child exhale ah and how satisfying to lay supine like a very very happy baby."  They think back to when they were babies and when they were children.  They remember suckling on bottles and being cradled in their housekeepers' arms.  They remember posing for family photos, but never quite posing long enough for the photographer to actually snap the picture or even for their mothers and fathers to find their rightful places in the family portrait tableau.  Yes, the moms think of all these lovely things during their daily yoga practice, and the whole thing culminates in them nodding prayerfully and saying, "Namamaste".  They say it and think, "oh how clever...we spend time stretching like babies and then say Na-MAMA-ste" at the end of class...We thank our earth mother...Mother Nature!  Yes...thank you mother nature on this beauteous day.  Thank you mother nature for the sunshine.  Thank you mother nature for your blessings!"

The moms jet out of their yoga studio.  They flag a cab to Trader Joes.  The exit the cab upon arrival, tip the cabby 10 dollars, and shut the cab door while simultaneously taking a full wiff of the sweet smelling Spring city air.  They rush into Trader Joes, maneuver their high heels down the aisles, and throw all of their Johnny's/Sally's favorite snacks into their cart.  Like on autopilot they grab for peanut butter, macaroni and cheese, tortilla chips, baby carrots, and chocolate soy milk.  They think about food pyramids and recipes that they plan to steal from Rachel Ray and her 30 minute meals.  These moms are thinking about so many things all at once.  They hear their cellphones beep, fresh with new text messages, but they don't have time to check them.  The 20 year old nannies who watch their children after school are always texting them nervously saying things like, "Is Johnny allowed to have three Oreos for snack today?  He says you always let him do that. lol." or "Sally has a really runny nose today.  Can I use toilet paper to wipe it cause I think you guys are out of tissues. lol".  The moms roll their eyes when they hear their phones beep and continue shopping.  They think about what a calming effect their yoga practice has had on them.  They think about the fact that there is no emergency that can't wait until they get home around 7:30 PM.  It will be just like every other day.  Little Johnny and Sally will be just fine.  

Holy crap...I have no idea why this beautiful day inspired this super dark bit of fiction, but it did.  Woa...sorry for the spontaneous and morbid story that I just pulled out of my ass.  

 

Sue me...I'm on a poem kick.

Last night, 3/2/09, Pink Hair Affair did a few improv score thingys at National Mechanics for a fundraiser cabaret for Mascher Space. Clear packaging tape came to my artistic rescue for probably about the 20th time. We handed out bar napkins with haikus taped on them. The haikus were amazingly fun to write, and I think that some dreary day in winter should be made National Haiku Day. Everyone would have to wear clothing with his/her own personalized haikus, they would also have to change their facebook status to a haiku...and write haikus on napkins, they would even have to speak in haikus (within reason...we wouldn't want anyone geeking out too much!) But it wouldn't hurt anyone to pass the Mcdonalds worker a post-it saying:
I'd like a burger
with pickles, ketchup, onions
and that special sauce!

We handed out some blank napkins and pens and egged people in the bar on to write their own haikus. We took three home. I kind of like them. They are all semi-related to the events of the cabaret and the night in general!

Lazy transvestite
Wearing a blond wig poorly
Maybe dress like Cher?

Why the pink hair, babes?
Do the curtains match the drapes?
No worry, I'm gay.

I escape through you
Like open French breeze-way doors.
Its drafty in here.

Here is my final haiku response to the ones that we got:

The drag queen was bad.
Like watching a trainwreck. No?
But who is to judge?

Pink wigs make us fun.
Its a gimmick we can comb,
exploit, then remove.

Don't catch pneumonia.
And don't catch an S.T.D!
Asshole, it just snowed!

SomeAnyOverItch

"SomeAnyOverItch" is a duet for Ashley Wood and myself that we are showing for the first time at Studio 34 on Saturday, Feb. 28th @ Current Series.  The show starts at 8 and is $5.  There are lots of great dance shows that night, so be sure to make it to at least one of them...otherwise the dance fairy of bad karma will be out to get you.  

Here is a poem/text that I like to think of as holding hands with the duet.  They go together, but are hopefully not dependent on each other.  Any feedback on the text or the piece would be amazing.  (gesualdic@gmail.com)

This stage is nothing.

Imagine this stage as nothing.

Something is just Nothing playing dress up:

glitzy baubles dangling from Nothing's earlobes

a gaudy shawl draped round Nothing's neck.

Nothing.

So bare, so rare, so very hard to come by.

The words "so" and "very" for example

are two shiny beads on the necklace in Nothing's dress up bin.

We have tendencies to dress up the page, dress up the stage, the space

We dress up the space: so pure, so empty.

(ah see how I use two adjectives when one would do)

We tend to make somethings, add layers.

We use repetition over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over writing it so many times over and over till the word "over" looks like it is spelled wrong: so foreign, so queer.

And then there are those layers we add: those layers of controversy, of political incorrectness

Those layers we construct and have no chance of backing away from,

no chance of them not itching like an Irish wool sweater up against a bare breast.

Even in the icy winter,

even then you'd itch and itch and itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch and itch and itch your bare breast so many times that you'd lose confidence in the English language and the way it spells its four letter, queer little words and the way the violent actions they denote leave your breast red and raw.

So Nothing plays dress up quite often

tries desperately in hopes of becoming something, anything, overthing, itchthing.

It layers itself, plays at being so absurd, so bizarre.

Nothing squeezes its feet into paten leather, 6 inch pumps, walks over a sewer grate, gets its heel stuck...

The heel breaks.

Nothing falls, exposing, OH GOD, exposing its somethings, anythings, overthings, itchthings.

No one sees Nothing fall.

No one is around.

No one hears it.

No one cares. 

I should read more

There are lots of things we all should do! If we let the wealth of undone things on our should-do lists get us down, we'd all be miserable blubbering messes. That said:
the fact that I should lose a couple pounds, should take more dance class, should get more sleep, should drink more wine and less beer, should save more money, should get a haircut, should ignore things on the periphery more often, and should spend less time on facebook...all these un-done things don't really get my panties all up in a bunch. They will happen in their own sweet time, and if they don't happen...well whatever...nobody is perfect!

However, it makes me sad that there is so much great literature out there - such a prolific amount of quality writing. When I read a book that I like, the process is simple, genuine, and so completely gratifying. But I am so uninspired to actually open the book and begin reading. Aside from the Sunday Times and a few articles, periodicals and short stories, its been a while since I have read a book (more than half a year). What the hell?

I will get reading. I swear. I just remembered that the last thing I did read was Edward Albee's "The Play About the Baby".

Thats it for today's episode of let me make a pretentious post that says..."oh look at me. I don't read, but i should because I am just that witty and sharp. and oh...let me know what books you recommend. and oh blah blah blah" The whole post is like a bad Q and A with a choreographer...where both the audience and the choreographer are trying to subtly or not-so-subtly say oh...look how smart and worldly I am...look...look at me.

But no seriously...I should read more
and you should look at me. ha

this is old, but whatever

I wrote this right after I watched one of the presidential debates in October. Here it is!

a debate-inspired free write...ripped off of Ivana Muller's show

Wednesday, October 15, 2008 at 9:44am

I saw Ivana Muller's show "While We were Holding It Together". It is this amazing performance piece in which she creates this "still" tableau with 5 performers and then uses text to bring you on this insanely surreal and pluralistic journey. For a sample, check: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XbPBoq_A5vg
I got so excited about this "I imagine" concept, that I couldn't help myself. I think watch the clip first so that you don't think I am mental.

Performers: Senator McCain (stage right) and Senator Obama (stage left)


McCain: Well Tom, I imagine this whole auditorium is spinning – like an amusement park ride. We are all being sucked to the walls by centrifugal force.

Obama: I imagine my brain is sloshed toward the back of my skull. All the front brain – the hippocampus, I believe its called, is pulled by this force. It squeezes toward, toward uh… the back brain – the base, the root, the…I’ve heard it called the um- animal brain. Yes. I imagine both my brains are squeezed together…the gray matter looking like – looking like the um – the um – the, well this sounds silly, but like my wife’s thighs squeezing into a pair of jeans. And with this fair amount of “brain squishing”, caused of course by this ride that Sen. McCain speaks of, comes a real, a real…an effect.
I imagine I can “FEEL” the rhetoric. It is lodged or something, the rhetoric, I mean, it is quite literally lodged in my gut. I imagine

McCain: I imagine the floor drops out. I imagine you Tom, you are the carnie man outside the ride. You have a bright red carnie t-shirt on. You press a bright red button and wahhhhh…. The floor…..g o n e!

Obama: I imagine it quite differently Tom. I imagine you are inside the ride with us. We have all been stuck to these spinning walls for quite some time now, years perhaps.

McCain: I imagine we have been spinning for far too long as well, Sen. Obama. What do you say, when the floor comes back up and the ride stops, I’ll buy us both chili dogs?

Obama: I imagine despite the brain sloshing, I would be very hungry. Thank you, Senator.


Obama: I imagine we are competitors in a pie-eating contest. We each have an unlimited amount of cream pies stacked beside our podiums, and we must eat as many as possible be…

McCain: Yes. I imagine before that damn little red light flashes…of course signaling that time is up.

Obama: I imagine that the damn little red light is unfair and unreasonable.

McCain: I imagine you, Senator Obama, just have too much to say.

Obama: I imagine you, Senator McCain, have some cream in the crevice of your mouth and oh some, some more is on the lapel of your jacket.

McCain: I imagine us doing the whole debate facing away from each other, I imagine I’d feel more comfortable…standing back to back maybe?

Obama: Yes, I imagine the possibilities of our spatial relationship to be very interesting – something to be played with, within reason of course.

McCain: Or I imagine it like a duel, a Western. We walk a certain amount of paces, and on the green light, we turn, AND

Obama: Yes or like a, um an, um.. a karaoke duel or something. You first, Senator McCain. Then me. On and on. All night long.

McCain: I imagine you would sing, what’s the name again? …Earth, Wind, and Fire or something like that.

Obama: Yes Senator McCain, I imagine the audience here and in front of their televisions at home would love us both.

McCain: I imagine, you Tom would be that Simon Cowl british bastard.

Obama: I imagine you Tom, would buy everyone here a round of shots at last call…maybe make a toast to Absurdity.

McCain: I imagine if my mother were here, in this room today, she would not understand any of this

When is the dance over? hand over the money...

Let us pretend:
I have a dance collective.
We dance. We move. We talk and do artsy things together.
We pose questions about movement and stillness.
We pose questions about space.
We pose questions about the human race, and what makes people turn to dance, and what makes people annoyed with dance, and what makes people have a relationship to dance in the first place.
We pose questions about our bodies. Some of us want to get more buff/more toned. Some of us want to feel out sitsbones. Some of us want to understand where the depth of our inhale begins.
We are curious. NOT for the pure sake of being curious...or are we?
Anyone can be curious...being curious, asking questions, asking Why? and Why? and Why? Its a very 2 year old thing to do. Then the sensory and conceptual explorations of these "Why's?" is pretty (to use a word that artists like to throw around for semi-shock value) it is all quite masturbatory.
We want to play and play and play. Foster our creative/curious selves.
This is our job. This is our work.
The final performance is the aftermath of the process.
Even then, in what sense is it final? Is it over: when the last dancer ceases to move, or when the music shuts off, or at a blackout, or when the audience's applaud dies down, or when everyone is out of the venue, or when the last dancer gets paid?
Does the performance not still continue in the pulled hamstring muscle of one of the dancers, or in the mind of an audience member, or the smell of sweat in the pit stain area of the dancers' costumes, or in the fizz of the post-show beer that is bought with the dancers' performance stipend?

If Bob Marley met Sigur Ros...?

I tutor out in Chesterfield, N.J.  It is a good almost hour outside of the city, but I must admit that although I normally hate driving and commuting, the extra 4 hours of cruising there and back on Saturdays and Sundays is a nice, forced chill time.  

There is no traffic on the weekends.  With the exception of coming down 10th street through Philly Chinatown, it is smooth sailing.  I've had great recent karma with traffic lights, probably to make up for all the shitty luck I've had with them before.  As I pass swiftly through them, they shine down at me looking all green and generous.  Each green light reminds me of a bouncer at a gay club.  It is as if I am underage and have a horrible fake id, and the bouncer looks all scary and intimidating, but upon entry and i.d. inspection, he smiles like a big teddy bear, taps me on the back, and says, "go right ahead in doll".  Sweet!  Weird analogy, I know!  But if you know me, you know that I lived my not-quite-21-yet years in the gayborhood.  And you can't blame a girl for wanting to get funky and dance without getting awkwardly grinded upon by the creepy club guys that society apparently breeds at straight dance clubs.

ANYWAY...I enjoy the drive to jersey.  Once I get past the eyesores of strip malls, real malls, shopping centers, and liquor stores, I sail onto 295.  Today I was listening to a Sigur Ros cd (that I semi-stole but plan on returning once I burn it, cause someone left it in the cd player at my rehearsal last night).  I forgot how lovely Sigur Ros is: the soothing piano, and the melodies, and the breath, and the patience and subtle persistence.  They could be so corny, but they are not...especially when you are listening while driving on a highway.  They take you away to a simple place and you don't have the urge to hear a funky beat or electric guitars squealing.  I like that.

Tutoring went surprisingly well.  I am realizing that all the headaches and disorganized Princeton Review scrambling, and all the attempts I've made to wrap my head around this Princeton Review job are paying off.  It really wasn't easy at first...or literally for the first year that I was teaching and tutoring.  I am not passionate about the SAT, but I wanted to still be genuine in my attempts to help kids out.  The job felt very unnatural/inorganic.  I felt like I should be more organized, more serious, and less idealistic and dreamy.  I was semi-right, but lately I've been starting to settle into the job more.  I love that its flexible schedule-wise, I love that it is a challenge, and I love that it has made me a bit more of a grammar nazi than I already was before.  I like the two kids that I am tutoring right now too...which helps.  

So driving home from tutoring, I was super inspired by the country-feel of Chesterfield.  There are vast, snow-covered fields, and barns, and open spaces, and curving roads.  The whole landscape felt nice.  By that point the Sigur Ros cd was on the last couple tracks and was making a lovely soundtrack for the ride.  The whole trip was seeming oddly cinematic and yes I hate to say this because I cringe at moments like this, but it seemed "sympathetic" or "romantic" or some kind of sappy shit.  Hmm...are these the type feelings that start creeping into one's mind at age 23?  Before I know it I'll be hanging up Norman Rockwell paintings ..and making scrapbooks...and saving locks of hair and ticket stubs.  

So as I got closer to Philly, I thought "Enough of this. Maybe there will be some real loud crazy music playing on WKDU."  I switched to FM.  First I got stuck listening to a few amazing oldies tunes.  Then when I switched to WKDU, they were playing LOTS of Bob Marley.  The first song I heard was "redemption song".  It had me thinking about artist's and lack of health insurance (from this meeting I attended earlier this week), problems that people have in their lives, blah blah.  Thanks Bob Marley, you've got me right back to sappy.  Faith in my own semi-coolness was redeemed when I heard and enjoyed, "Buffalo Soldier" and many other lovely hits. I appreciate this chill day, and I wonder what would happen if in heaven or something, Bob Marley met the Sigur Ros crew.  Maybe in the next century, when we are all up there together with nothing to do, I'll arrange a potluck.  Let me know now if you want to be on the guestlist and what you plan on bringing.  Jerk chicken anyone?  And who knows any Icelandic dishes? Not I.