on writing
It worries me a bit that so much of my generation will leave no written legacy behind, no guidebooks for those to follow; just from rambling, narcissistic accounts of daily minutiae. Granted, sometimes I use this intertron thing as a quick reminder to myself, "these events, these synaptic triggers," and granted I've hardly written in my paper journal in months--that worries me, too. Doubtless, an anthropologist would find twitter fascinating (I didn't know what it was until a couple of days ago), but will a ten-year-old be able to find any remnants of culture, experiences, success and failure and paths-less-trodden in this mess of blogs? Would our diaries and journals, published, rouse anger, conjure tears or laughter or the feeling of the very last sunset? Or would they instead be muted somnambular recitals of this accomplishment, that party, those attractive people?
The so-called bigger picture comes in and out of focus depending on my locus, my current point of view. During a dance, all that exists is my partner, the music, other dancers, the feeling of my feet interacting with the rhythm to create intricate syncopies; when I think of the world, I want to blow up most every road, crane, drilling rig and mine; when I think of history I realize how infinite our choices are; when I read that literacy ruins one's ability to absorb oral traditions, I mourn that I may never be a bard. Maybe enough capoeira can heal even that rift.
Professor Graveto got serious at the end of Monday's class about what his class is and isn't: He doesn't take a dime to teach us, he said, and so he doesn't owe us anything--we're responsible for our own learning. Despite those words, he's taught me a number of things in just a few classes which will help me keep from major injury. The style of learning bothers me, though. Some of the motions and notions are so foreign to me that I can't conceive of how to imitate them. My body feels retarded, imbecilically slow, and he spells out for us so much that a Brazilian would just have to absorb. Those of you who know me know that I'm not a club-handed oaf with two left feet, either, but the idea of having to play before a mestre right now makes me feel sick. I know I have to keep at it, if for no other reason than this: I've never done anything like this before in my life.
The so-called bigger picture comes in and out of focus depending on my locus, my current point of view. During a dance, all that exists is my partner, the music, other dancers, the feeling of my feet interacting with the rhythm to create intricate syncopies; when I think of the world, I want to blow up most every road, crane, drilling rig and mine; when I think of history I realize how infinite our choices are; when I read that literacy ruins one's ability to absorb oral traditions, I mourn that I may never be a bard. Maybe enough capoeira can heal even that rift.
Professor Graveto got serious at the end of Monday's class about what his class is and isn't: He doesn't take a dime to teach us, he said, and so he doesn't owe us anything--we're responsible for our own learning. Despite those words, he's taught me a number of things in just a few classes which will help me keep from major injury. The style of learning bothers me, though. Some of the motions and notions are so foreign to me that I can't conceive of how to imitate them. My body feels retarded, imbecilically slow, and he spells out for us so much that a Brazilian would just have to absorb. Those of you who know me know that I'm not a club-handed oaf with two left feet, either, but the idea of having to play before a mestre right now makes me feel sick. I know I have to keep at it, if for no other reason than this: I've never done anything like this before in my life.