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!
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
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.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
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
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
Monday, February 16, 2009
this is old, but whatever
I wrote this right after I watched one of the presidential debates in October. Here it is!
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
a debate-inspired free write...ripped off of Ivana Muller's show
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
Monday, February 9, 2009
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?
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?
Saturday, February 7, 2009
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.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
I guess you've never seen an old lady cry before
The gym where I work is full of old ladies. I've worked there for almost 4 years, so not only do I personally know each and every one of them, but I have seen them actually grow older. Its a weird thing...watching people you don't really give much of a shit about grow older. I mean, I am not a callous, horrible person who crosses my fingers hoping one of the old bags will land her low impact jumping jack on the side of her orthopedic shoe and break her ankle. Not that. But my point is, you watch the 4 year development of a boy or girl from age 6-10 or 21-25 and you see so many noticeable changes that you are forced to say hmm... those four years are really something. You say this whether you know the kid or not. You don't have to be a relative or friend to be inevitably forced to genuinely appreciate the concepts of time and patience. You are forced to appreciate nature's gradual pace. But these old ladies and their aging...it is hard to watch. Most days I don't notice anything, but some days I find myself thinking geez, after 4 years Cecilia is still bragging about her visits to MOMA, Betty is still on her "Grannies for Peace" political kick, Dot is still doing the same damn half-ass sit ups that don't work, Marge is still grumbling and complaining from inside of her pashmina and fur coat...etc. Their aging seems terribly stagnant, terribly clingy to the past and what was. I'm not sure what I want to happen...I'm not sure what I want them to do...radically change, become new women, jump ship at age 75, take up motorcycling, divorce their husbands, quit the gym...I don't know. I guess it is beautiful that time has molded them into the quirky, unbudging, often-crochety old ladies that I have know for 4 years, but it just seems odd.
I have a favorite though; there is only one, and I have secretly wanted her to be my pretend grandma since I met her: Rhoda. She is wicked cute, brilliant, and honest. She is just a class act. I love that she always brags about her purple Walmart gloves and her daughter who is an artist in New York. I love how she thinks the world of her children without ever being pretentious, or sentimental, or gushy. I love how you can tell that she has been through a lot of shit, but knows that although it probably made her stronger, that life is still very uncertain and she is not even close to having all the answers. I love how she loves Obama and is so excited for our country, but hates how the other ladies squeak and squalk and chirp their political opinions just to hear the echo. Basically, she is the coolest lady I know. Every day she rides the stationary bike for 10 minutes, grabs half a styrofoam cup of coffee, and leaves. We often talk, not for too long, for just long enough.
Today Rhoda came into the office asking if I could get her coat zipper un-stuck. It was a bitch of a zipper, as the teeth of it were pretty much shot. She said she was having trouble with her thumbs, arthritis I guess. I got it un-stuck, but then when she tried to zip it again, it became re-stuck. She tried to get it un-stuck a second time, and I was looking at the zipper not at her face when she said, "I guess you've never seen a grown woman cry." I thought, "sure I have" and remembered when I used to make my great grandmom (Butch) cry when I was a kid and she was baby sitting me. I would get her all riled up until actual tears would drip down her cheeks, and in retrospect, I can't believe I used to do that! I think maybe I did it because I actually got some absurd fascination out of seeing a lady of her age, who I was sure had been through soooo much, be brought to tears like an ity bity baby. But back to Rhoda, I looked up and she was in fact almost crying (I guess because her thumbs were in that much pain and she was also just plain frustrated with the zipper). I don't know what is profound or special about this, but the whole event has been spinning around my head all day.
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