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Dancing with myself
It's a soft sleepy day. The type of day that you sit inside with the lights off, watch DVDs, curl up with a blanket, eat brownies and ice cream. The sky hangs heavy with mist, the trees are tipped with green, and flowers glisten in voilet, pink, and yellow. Days like today make me sleepy, dreamy, introspective.
Last night I went to my first Salsa class. Not as scarey as I thought. Sort of like a scene out of the Richard Gere film "Shall We Dance", except no one looked remotely like Richard Gere or Jennifer Lopez (thank you, god). Modest place, the foyer is strung with hand knitted scarves and dance togs, children's drawings and advertisements for writing workshops. A water cooler sits against one wall, missing cups. Against the other wall is a series of cupboards where you can place your bag, sweater, coat and shoes. Or you can hang them on one of the wooden hangers on a child's clothing rack. In back are two rooms, one is huge with two wall mirrors covering the length of the space facing the dancers. Similar to those mirrors one sees in ballet dance halls. The other much smaller - contains one bathroom in the back, and has no mirrors. The bathroom is the size of a walk-in closet. The second room smells a bit like day-old socks or sweaty feet. Our class is held in the second one, which I prefer because it has no mirrors, even though it is a little stinky. Mirrors make me nervous - and tend to confuse me. There are approximately six of us to start, plus the teacher. Two couples, myself, and one other single woman - named Faith. She is the color of ebony or dark bittersweet chocolat. Long braided hair. And a lovely smile. Nervous just like me. The couples are both Italian. Tino and his wife Maria - are tiny. Both men have no hair to speak of. The other couple, whose names escape me, are taller, bonier. Their eyes seem sleepy, with heavy bags. Maria wears a glittery red and silver top and at the end of the class tells us all that she feels like a million dollars. Her husband, Tino, in a soft whisper, tells us he feels like a one dollar bill. Like me he struggles getting the steps down, getting the beat.
One step, two step, step in place. One step, two step, hold. Side to side.
Back step, back a step, step in place. So simple. Yet, I seem to be off count. I keep taking that extra step. Or the left goes when it should be the right. Also the steps are meant to be small ones, making me wonder is this a short person's sport? No, maybe not, there are people dancing who are taller.
I need to use the balls of my feet, I'm told. And my shoe, a plain black leather walking shoe, with a thin rubber sole, seems to stick too much to the wood plank floor. At least it does on the turn. But, after a while, I do see a little improvement. Not a lot. A little. Minuscule.
Looking at those around me - I realize I'm not alone. Everyone is also struggling to get the right beat, the right rhythm. Not unlike life, I guess, hard as I am on myself - it amazes me a bit when I realize I'm not the only person screwing up or missing a step here or there. It's just different steps the others are missing, that's all.
The dance we're told is the cha-cha. It's a quick little two step number, danced to a quick latin beat. Simple steps that move quickly. After an hour and a half (apparently the class is more than just an hour - with an extra period of rehearsal time if you wish it, right afterwards), I feel exhausted. My hips and tummy and thighs are sore. I don't stay for the rehearsal period, having a bit of a sore throat, which may or may not be the onslaught of a cold (today I know it's just allergies, yesterday wasn't so certain). A couple of people are kind to me and encourage me to return next week. One man, Tito, older, reminds me a little of Ben Vereen, kindly shakes my hand and encourages me to return. Such warmth in his eyes. The class is and is not what I expected. I did not end up standing off completely by myself, alone, with no one to talk to, feeling awkward - or if I did, only for about ten to fifteen minutes. Nor did I end up making a complete fool of myself. I did not meet anyone amazing or immediately click with anyone. But it was the first time and I did not stay to practice steps.
Did I have fun? Yes. I think so. I got out of my head for a little while. I interacted with people in an arena that had zip to do with work or my *cough*
other obsessions.
On the way home, a bit of the nip in the air - enough for a denim jacket at least, I found myself doing the cha-cha-cha on the street. Up a step, back a step, step in place. Side side. Same in the shower. Except I think I may be off again. Is it up a step, back a step or up a step, up a step? Shakes head in dismay. Dancing has never come easy for me - I tend to flip the steps in my head, I'm always off on the rhythm, and my left foot goes when people say right. But I love dancing, I love the rhythm of it. The movement.
I dance with words. Writing and dancing both have rules - which can be bent and broken once you know them. For instance in writing - good grammar dictates that there is no such thing as a sentence that does not contain both a noun and a verb. But I adore one word sentences. We do not think in complete sentences after all. And there's nothing better to get a point across then to say it with one word. Much more effective then using an exclamation point on the reader's eye. Why? Because the eye in its dance across the page, stops and does a double-take on that one word, standing off by itself. Puncutated.
The art of writing is knowing the rules, knowing why they exist, and knowing how and when to break them - and that only comes with lots and lots of practice. By practice - I do not mean writing in the same style over and over again as one might practice piano scales, but by trying different styles. Another rule that I love playing with: quotation marks. If someone is giving a speech that goes on for two paragraphs - the rule is end the quotes when they stop speaking. Makes logical sense. Grammar is actually very logical. However, if there is a pause in the conversation, in other words they've stopped speaking, then started again. Then it is far more effective to end the quotes. Skip a line. Then start the quotation marks again with a whole new statement.
Example: "I love what you just said about dancing, it was terrific. Please say more."
"Did you hear me? I just gave you a compliment? Aren't you going to say anything more about dancing? Come on!"
If the writer has made it clear that there are only two people communicating, the reader would have to be a complete dope not to figure out that the same person is talking. Providing the reader with additional clues is redundant and treats the reader as if they are a dope. Also, there is a reason for closing the quotes. Time has passed between the two statements. Some writers will add things like he "added" or "continued" to make it clear the same speaker is speaking. Others will make the reader work a bit. I've seen both. The talented writers do it in such a way that you can tell by the tone of the words who is talking.
Anyone can write a grammatically correct sentence, but very few people can write an ungrammatically correct sentence that makes sense. James Joyce, William Faulkner, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez are amongst them. Also the problem with rules? No one ever agrees on them. Trust me - my work is all about following rules and procedures - not only following them, implementing them, and ensuring others understand and follow them. What I've learned about rules is this - for every rule we create there is an exception. And each rule has more than one interpretation. The trick is not to allow yourself to be governed too much by rules, to be flexible to play. Obeying any rule rigidly shows that you do not understand it. It is important to understand why a rule is in place in order to follow it. I went to school with a few libertarians, who basically didn't believe we should have any laws. These poor people had troubles with left-hand turn signals. Now I understood their difficulty - in the middle of Western Kansas, when about one or two cars drift across an intersection every six hours and may never ever meet, left-hand turn signals may seem a tad illogical. In the middle of NYC, on the other hand, they are a matter of life or death. Each rule depends on the situation. Very few rules can be used in all situations.
Dance is about rules and playing with rules. As well as exceptions to rules. It's why I adore watching it. Seeing how the dancer takes the rules he or she is given then plays with them, embroderies on them. Dance is a language of the body. It has its own punctuation. I love how dancers move to the music, how the music moves and affects the body. To me, you feel the music more when you dance to it then when you sing or play it. I've tried all three (suck at all three)- and dance still enthralls me the most. I still feel the music the most when I can move to it, which may explain why I despise concerts - you can't move at concert, you are usually standing neck deep in a mob of people or sitting neck deep in them. There's no ability to move. No ability to dance. Your stuck. Trapped. With nothing but sound and images flying at you, unable to hear or make sense of them, muffled by the sounds of the crowd around you, the feedback from loudspeaker. To me - that is hell. Give me a dance floor, about twenty to thirty people and a good beat. Let me move. Let me sway. Let me feel it flowing up my toes and into my legs up my chest, and through my arms. Let me touch my partner and feel it in them. No words, just bodies moving to the beat.
Was my first dance class like this? Not so much. But it was fun and it was different. And I met new people. And that for now, is enough.
Last night I went to my first Salsa class. Not as scarey as I thought. Sort of like a scene out of the Richard Gere film "Shall We Dance", except no one looked remotely like Richard Gere or Jennifer Lopez (thank you, god). Modest place, the foyer is strung with hand knitted scarves and dance togs, children's drawings and advertisements for writing workshops. A water cooler sits against one wall, missing cups. Against the other wall is a series of cupboards where you can place your bag, sweater, coat and shoes. Or you can hang them on one of the wooden hangers on a child's clothing rack. In back are two rooms, one is huge with two wall mirrors covering the length of the space facing the dancers. Similar to those mirrors one sees in ballet dance halls. The other much smaller - contains one bathroom in the back, and has no mirrors. The bathroom is the size of a walk-in closet. The second room smells a bit like day-old socks or sweaty feet. Our class is held in the second one, which I prefer because it has no mirrors, even though it is a little stinky. Mirrors make me nervous - and tend to confuse me. There are approximately six of us to start, plus the teacher. Two couples, myself, and one other single woman - named Faith. She is the color of ebony or dark bittersweet chocolat. Long braided hair. And a lovely smile. Nervous just like me. The couples are both Italian. Tino and his wife Maria - are tiny. Both men have no hair to speak of. The other couple, whose names escape me, are taller, bonier. Their eyes seem sleepy, with heavy bags. Maria wears a glittery red and silver top and at the end of the class tells us all that she feels like a million dollars. Her husband, Tino, in a soft whisper, tells us he feels like a one dollar bill. Like me he struggles getting the steps down, getting the beat.
One step, two step, step in place. One step, two step, hold. Side to side.
Back step, back a step, step in place. So simple. Yet, I seem to be off count. I keep taking that extra step. Or the left goes when it should be the right. Also the steps are meant to be small ones, making me wonder is this a short person's sport? No, maybe not, there are people dancing who are taller.
I need to use the balls of my feet, I'm told. And my shoe, a plain black leather walking shoe, with a thin rubber sole, seems to stick too much to the wood plank floor. At least it does on the turn. But, after a while, I do see a little improvement. Not a lot. A little. Minuscule.
Looking at those around me - I realize I'm not alone. Everyone is also struggling to get the right beat, the right rhythm. Not unlike life, I guess, hard as I am on myself - it amazes me a bit when I realize I'm not the only person screwing up or missing a step here or there. It's just different steps the others are missing, that's all.
The dance we're told is the cha-cha. It's a quick little two step number, danced to a quick latin beat. Simple steps that move quickly. After an hour and a half (apparently the class is more than just an hour - with an extra period of rehearsal time if you wish it, right afterwards), I feel exhausted. My hips and tummy and thighs are sore. I don't stay for the rehearsal period, having a bit of a sore throat, which may or may not be the onslaught of a cold (today I know it's just allergies, yesterday wasn't so certain). A couple of people are kind to me and encourage me to return next week. One man, Tito, older, reminds me a little of Ben Vereen, kindly shakes my hand and encourages me to return. Such warmth in his eyes. The class is and is not what I expected. I did not end up standing off completely by myself, alone, with no one to talk to, feeling awkward - or if I did, only for about ten to fifteen minutes. Nor did I end up making a complete fool of myself. I did not meet anyone amazing or immediately click with anyone. But it was the first time and I did not stay to practice steps.
Did I have fun? Yes. I think so. I got out of my head for a little while. I interacted with people in an arena that had zip to do with work or my *cough*
other obsessions.
On the way home, a bit of the nip in the air - enough for a denim jacket at least, I found myself doing the cha-cha-cha on the street. Up a step, back a step, step in place. Side side. Same in the shower. Except I think I may be off again. Is it up a step, back a step or up a step, up a step? Shakes head in dismay. Dancing has never come easy for me - I tend to flip the steps in my head, I'm always off on the rhythm, and my left foot goes when people say right. But I love dancing, I love the rhythm of it. The movement.
I dance with words. Writing and dancing both have rules - which can be bent and broken once you know them. For instance in writing - good grammar dictates that there is no such thing as a sentence that does not contain both a noun and a verb. But I adore one word sentences. We do not think in complete sentences after all. And there's nothing better to get a point across then to say it with one word. Much more effective then using an exclamation point on the reader's eye. Why? Because the eye in its dance across the page, stops and does a double-take on that one word, standing off by itself. Puncutated.
The art of writing is knowing the rules, knowing why they exist, and knowing how and when to break them - and that only comes with lots and lots of practice. By practice - I do not mean writing in the same style over and over again as one might practice piano scales, but by trying different styles. Another rule that I love playing with: quotation marks. If someone is giving a speech that goes on for two paragraphs - the rule is end the quotes when they stop speaking. Makes logical sense. Grammar is actually very logical. However, if there is a pause in the conversation, in other words they've stopped speaking, then started again. Then it is far more effective to end the quotes. Skip a line. Then start the quotation marks again with a whole new statement.
Example: "I love what you just said about dancing, it was terrific. Please say more."
"Did you hear me? I just gave you a compliment? Aren't you going to say anything more about dancing? Come on!"
If the writer has made it clear that there are only two people communicating, the reader would have to be a complete dope not to figure out that the same person is talking. Providing the reader with additional clues is redundant and treats the reader as if they are a dope. Also, there is a reason for closing the quotes. Time has passed between the two statements. Some writers will add things like he "added" or "continued" to make it clear the same speaker is speaking. Others will make the reader work a bit. I've seen both. The talented writers do it in such a way that you can tell by the tone of the words who is talking.
Anyone can write a grammatically correct sentence, but very few people can write an ungrammatically correct sentence that makes sense. James Joyce, William Faulkner, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez are amongst them. Also the problem with rules? No one ever agrees on them. Trust me - my work is all about following rules and procedures - not only following them, implementing them, and ensuring others understand and follow them. What I've learned about rules is this - for every rule we create there is an exception. And each rule has more than one interpretation. The trick is not to allow yourself to be governed too much by rules, to be flexible to play. Obeying any rule rigidly shows that you do not understand it. It is important to understand why a rule is in place in order to follow it. I went to school with a few libertarians, who basically didn't believe we should have any laws. These poor people had troubles with left-hand turn signals. Now I understood their difficulty - in the middle of Western Kansas, when about one or two cars drift across an intersection every six hours and may never ever meet, left-hand turn signals may seem a tad illogical. In the middle of NYC, on the other hand, they are a matter of life or death. Each rule depends on the situation. Very few rules can be used in all situations.
Dance is about rules and playing with rules. As well as exceptions to rules. It's why I adore watching it. Seeing how the dancer takes the rules he or she is given then plays with them, embroderies on them. Dance is a language of the body. It has its own punctuation. I love how dancers move to the music, how the music moves and affects the body. To me, you feel the music more when you dance to it then when you sing or play it. I've tried all three (suck at all three)- and dance still enthralls me the most. I still feel the music the most when I can move to it, which may explain why I despise concerts - you can't move at concert, you are usually standing neck deep in a mob of people or sitting neck deep in them. There's no ability to move. No ability to dance. Your stuck. Trapped. With nothing but sound and images flying at you, unable to hear or make sense of them, muffled by the sounds of the crowd around you, the feedback from loudspeaker. To me - that is hell. Give me a dance floor, about twenty to thirty people and a good beat. Let me move. Let me sway. Let me feel it flowing up my toes and into my legs up my chest, and through my arms. Let me touch my partner and feel it in them. No words, just bodies moving to the beat.
Was my first dance class like this? Not so much. But it was fun and it was different. And I met new people. And that for now, is enough.
no subject
no subject
No. You don't, I told myself. Let's think this through logically - which is basically what you read above. My discussion or argument with myself over this - which I was literally having in the back of my mind while writing the above post. (LOL!) That's why it wasn't posted in your journal, but somehow wriggled its way into my ramble on a dance class, which has very little to do with the topic.