Dance, communism, and crazies, but mostly dance.
Communism. Last Friday, my school was lucky enough to have Sam Webb, the president of the American Communist Party, as a guest speaker at my school. Thankfully, it was an optional presentation held after school by one of the clubs so none of the more embarrassing half of the school would bother to go just to heckle. I was pleasantly surprised, actually, how there was no heckling at the event, because there was talk of some people going just to harass the guy. But no, I enjoyed it a lot; it was more or less an hour-long question and answer session. American Communism, or at least what I got from what Mr. Webb said, is basically very far-left liberalism, no dictators or anything like in Russia and China.
Primaveras. The same Friday, I went to a dance concert by my school’s premier dance class. Amazing. The theme of the concert was “The Stories We Tell” and most of the dances were lyrical. Subjects ranged from raising awareness about child sex trafficking (all proceeds went to a charity that helps victims of such), to 9/11, to enjoying the sunset, to a massive Disney-movie themed dance. It was all so incredible and beautiful. Dance is beautiful, sad, wrenching, funny, nostalgic, sexy, bright, bold, serene, and transcendent. And beautiful.
Cunningham. On Saturday, I was lucky enough to get a free ticket to see the Merce Cunningham Dance Company on its last tour ever (the dance teacher got a bunch of free tickets to give out to anyone who was interested in going). It was amazing as well. Cunningham was one of the pioneers of modern dance and what he was doing at the time was considered totally revolutionary. The show had only three dances, the first two half an hour long, and the last one hour long. “XOVER” was done to a John Cage piece that sounded like an opera singer descending into schizophrenia, interspersed with odd, grating electronic noises. At one point the singer was gargling water as part of the music. On the background of the stage was projected a Rauschenberg painting, and the choreography was fitful and dissonant, though I don’t mean that negatively. “Crises”, the second piece, had choreography that reminded me of Dr. Seuss, whimsical and quirky, and the low yellow lighting and fuzzy, burbling jazz piano recording evoked a time decades past (the piece was made in 1960). The third piece, “Biped”, was my favorite and mixed dance and holograms. The music was lush, moody, and atmospheric, and choreography was beautiful and visually engaging. Lighting switched between yellow and dark blue, and the holograms - dashes, spheres, kinesthetic lines evoking moving human bodies - came on almost exclusively when the light was blue, which I interpreted as day and night, and the people dreaming at night. It was utterly mesmerizing and I did not want it to end. I feel so lucky to have seen this company at such a time when they are so close to no one seeing them dance again in person.
Undermined. On Wednesday, though, a terrible thing happened. My group in dance was rehearsing for our show, and one of the girls asked a girl from another group to record us. She put the video on Facebook later, and as I watched us I realized I looked horrible. Like a five-year-old, such amateurish movements, and I looked so out of place. Could it really be possible, I wondered, because I looked at myself in the mirror all the time and I seemed just fine. Maybe I was overreacting. Probably I am, but what matters is the possibility that was opened, that I’m not as good as I think I am. What matters is the crack in my confidence and the ghost following me around now. I can’t stop seeing myself in my mind, the awkwardness and childishness, and I’m rendered immobile, clumsy, half-hearted, insecure. It’s one of the worst feelings I’ve ever felt, and I don’t know how to get over it, because the video is incriminating evidence and even if it were destroyed, I’ll never get rid of the hard copy in my head. And the show is in six days.
Inspiration. Then, on Thursday morning on the bus, a crazy lady threw trash at me. Okay, fine, I’m being intentionally misleading. I was sitting on the bus studying for a Calculus quiz, my book in my lap and my backpack on the seat beside me. On the third seat in the row was random trash, a plastic wrapper with another wrapper inside, and some type of paper, creased and worn to the point of being fuzzy. The crazy lady stomps on, rolling a suitcase-like thing, plops down on the third seat, and spends the rest of the bus ride unsuccessfully coughing up a lung. But not before decisively scooping up the trash and tossing it on my backpack. Real nice, huh? I was momentarily stunned, simply staring at the junk sitting on my backpack. By the time I quit being stunned, it was too late to say a thing, and all the trash had slid off down to the floor behind the seat from the motion of the bus, besides. So I did the logical thing. I ranted to my friend about it later, and then that night, wrote a song about it. A capella, of course, since I’ve forgotten every one of the about five chords I ever learned, and very likely a rip-off of Regina Spektor’s own a capella songs. It felt good, though, and I may or may not give a kidney just to see the expression on the lady’s face if she found out about/heard the song.
Primaveras. The same Friday, I went to a dance concert by my school’s premier dance class. Amazing. The theme of the concert was “The Stories We Tell” and most of the dances were lyrical. Subjects ranged from raising awareness about child sex trafficking (all proceeds went to a charity that helps victims of such), to 9/11, to enjoying the sunset, to a massive Disney-movie themed dance. It was all so incredible and beautiful. Dance is beautiful, sad, wrenching, funny, nostalgic, sexy, bright, bold, serene, and transcendent. And beautiful.
Cunningham. On Saturday, I was lucky enough to get a free ticket to see the Merce Cunningham Dance Company on its last tour ever (the dance teacher got a bunch of free tickets to give out to anyone who was interested in going). It was amazing as well. Cunningham was one of the pioneers of modern dance and what he was doing at the time was considered totally revolutionary. The show had only three dances, the first two half an hour long, and the last one hour long. “XOVER” was done to a John Cage piece that sounded like an opera singer descending into schizophrenia, interspersed with odd, grating electronic noises. At one point the singer was gargling water as part of the music. On the background of the stage was projected a Rauschenberg painting, and the choreography was fitful and dissonant, though I don’t mean that negatively. “Crises”, the second piece, had choreography that reminded me of Dr. Seuss, whimsical and quirky, and the low yellow lighting and fuzzy, burbling jazz piano recording evoked a time decades past (the piece was made in 1960). The third piece, “Biped”, was my favorite and mixed dance and holograms. The music was lush, moody, and atmospheric, and choreography was beautiful and visually engaging. Lighting switched between yellow and dark blue, and the holograms - dashes, spheres, kinesthetic lines evoking moving human bodies - came on almost exclusively when the light was blue, which I interpreted as day and night, and the people dreaming at night. It was utterly mesmerizing and I did not want it to end. I feel so lucky to have seen this company at such a time when they are so close to no one seeing them dance again in person.
Undermined. On Wednesday, though, a terrible thing happened. My group in dance was rehearsing for our show, and one of the girls asked a girl from another group to record us. She put the video on Facebook later, and as I watched us I realized I looked horrible. Like a five-year-old, such amateurish movements, and I looked so out of place. Could it really be possible, I wondered, because I looked at myself in the mirror all the time and I seemed just fine. Maybe I was overreacting. Probably I am, but what matters is the possibility that was opened, that I’m not as good as I think I am. What matters is the crack in my confidence and the ghost following me around now. I can’t stop seeing myself in my mind, the awkwardness and childishness, and I’m rendered immobile, clumsy, half-hearted, insecure. It’s one of the worst feelings I’ve ever felt, and I don’t know how to get over it, because the video is incriminating evidence and even if it were destroyed, I’ll never get rid of the hard copy in my head. And the show is in six days.
Inspiration. Then, on Thursday morning on the bus, a crazy lady threw trash at me. Okay, fine, I’m being intentionally misleading. I was sitting on the bus studying for a Calculus quiz, my book in my lap and my backpack on the seat beside me. On the third seat in the row was random trash, a plastic wrapper with another wrapper inside, and some type of paper, creased and worn to the point of being fuzzy. The crazy lady stomps on, rolling a suitcase-like thing, plops down on the third seat, and spends the rest of the bus ride unsuccessfully coughing up a lung. But not before decisively scooping up the trash and tossing it on my backpack. Real nice, huh? I was momentarily stunned, simply staring at the junk sitting on my backpack. By the time I quit being stunned, it was too late to say a thing, and all the trash had slid off down to the floor behind the seat from the motion of the bus, besides. So I did the logical thing. I ranted to my friend about it later, and then that night, wrote a song about it. A capella, of course, since I’ve forgotten every one of the about five chords I ever learned, and very likely a rip-off of Regina Spektor’s own a capella songs. It felt good, though, and I may or may not give a kidney just to see the expression on the lady’s face if she found out about/heard the song.