Leotards

Dancing after cleaning, to Gogol Bordello. Remembered when I was small and taking free (or at least very cheap) ballet classes at Patton Park. The teacher dyed light, horrible green leotards to a reasonable black for the girls. There was an actual piano player, an elderly black man who kept time and a tune for seven year old girls practicing plies in an unheated, but much mirrored, dance studio. I was sent because my feet turned in, a birth related deformity. Of course, all ballet did for my feet was cause me to pronate instead, but such is life. I liked the discipline, the work, the space to move in. I would all my life bruise myself on smaller spaces, having learned to dance in a large open one. A physical courage learned.

Once, I was awarded, "Most likely to succeed in ballet." My brothers decided this was actually said "belly" which turned out to have more truth in it. I accepted this without thought as a child, but to think that back then, my movements were so pleasing. No dancer, not really, but a dancer for myself certainly. I don't move to the music, it moves me. A natural, if not an exceptional one. I still dance, more recently, with a good floor, and playing my music. Have not gotten out the scarves, and the coin belt has lost it's chain - making it too short for my hips. But I will, it has begun.

I would not be younger, even in body. Even my pain is part of who I am. To live without it, without even the memory of it in my scars would steal the lessons learned, the precious experience, the understanding writ on my tendons, scored into my nerves. I cannot separate my body from my mind from my soul, they are all of a piece. I would not be younger in any part, without deranging the whole weave, weft, embroidery. Patches and pulls are as much a part of me as what I know from having survived them.

And so, as the fifth decade rushes toward me with arms outstretched, I stand awaiting the embrace with a wry smile, and a profound satisfaction. Yes, this is the beginning of a very good and interesting story, much to be written, much to be told. A few weeks, a good excuse to get people here. I am so content.


Home, and Loved.

Fad

The building has fliers up about a community party this week. With an "80's!" theme. (shudder)

Obvious from their "contests" for big hair, and the like, they are thinking late disco era, Cindi Lauper and MTV. It did occur to me to put on black and plaid, chains and make-up, and put my hair up in a mohawk, sneer at them all and stomp off. Not worth the trouble, but it would be funny. To me, at least.

The only reason I liked disco music in high school was because one did not need a partner to get on the floor at dances. No one ever asked me to dance, I could hardly mourn the loss of couples dances. Nor did I have musical taste at the time. At least, I'd never heard anything that really deeply appealed to me. So, there was likewise nothing I especially hated.

In college, I got to go to a dance club that played (recorded) punk and new wave - and although I never really dressed up for it, I liked the music, and the styles that went with it.

Ultimately, although I had to wear what was available in stores, I never went to extremes. I prefer camouflage, not standing out. Never had the income for "fashion." Never prioritized faddish clothes.

And I like the updated versions, of music and fashions. Often, they seem more sophisticated and aware than the originals. Winnowed of the chaff, better thought out.

I think I've put this up before, but it's worth showing again.

Roll

I used to belly dance. Nothing serious, but I got pretty good in a pleasing-myself, can-do-bellyrolls, sort of way. First classes got me through my last year of nursing school with my back in better shape rather than in misery. Performed a couple of times, once to the TMBG version of Istanbul (Not Constantinople), fast and flirty, got a laugh and applause, satisfied my residual urge to ever be on stage again. I don't like choreography for this kind of dance, it always feels stilted, the energy sucked out of the exuberant joy that is the heart of this improvisational, skilled, folk dance.

And that is what more advanced belly dance classes are about, turning us into performers, a troupe, with set choreographed steps. Which bores and annoys me. If enough people could simply gather to dance once or twice a month, dress up, shake it good, I would so be there. Let the kids run around, let drummers come and play, no competition, just dancing the sweat up. A few open dances at the end of a series of performances, well, it's something, and I was very grateful.

I need to be in better shape, but I still outdanced most of the students at the end. Not showy, just uninhibited and in time to the beat.

The best troupe there seemed to have the same idea, with a lead dancer starting a pattern, and the rest following along - more or less, synchronizing creatively. The gorgeously decorated, but modest costumes, highlighted their movements, with unusual, energetic music underlining. Engaging, funny, the kind of dancing that completely silences my inner critic.

The two drunk boyfriends, who wound up at our table, of a couple of the dancers (who left them to sit with the other dancers) were wads. Early twenty-somethings who seemed to think their interest in me, asking probing questions, offering me their every passing thought, was a generous gift. Gah. Even pointedly ignoring them did no good, and eventually D and I, and N who later drummed - and who invited us - and who apparently has frat-guy-attractant karma, moved all the way to the other side of the restaurant to get away from the entitled little dicks. On my own, I'd have quashed them much sooner, but with a group of three, it is more cumbersome. Still, I console myself that they had crappy girlfriends who brought them, then abandoned them. And that the restaurant made some money off their drinking, as did the dancers. They were throwing out $5s like they were beads at Mardi Gras. They tried to grab N's drum, with an offer to "jam", which did not go down well. N's not a small guy, and perfectly capable of defending himself. He did, with definite gentleness.

Speaking of whom, it's always great to see a friend distinguish himself. He announced the drumming, encouraging dancers to get up, in a clear, audible, amusing and commanding manner. He took center stage with an aplomb that seemed for a moment out of place from the person I know day to day, but then I realized how appropriate, yes, of course. He is an amazing person, and any woman who can't see that certainly doesn't deserve him. Hopefully, soon, a great woman, with an open heart and clear eyes spots him. He's hoping for a belly dancer.